


Reach: Revisited

by thecomedownchampion, Weak



Category: Halo, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Halo, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Hopeful Ending, Multi, Panic Attacks, Reach, Romance, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2017-12-29 06:22:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecomedownchampion/pseuds/thecomedownchampion, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weak/pseuds/Weak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On July 24, 2552, Noble Team A confirmed what no one dared to suspect: the Covenant have found the human colony of Reach. As the Covenant forces press their assault, Noble Team B, led by Commander Laura-016, has been sent in for ground control. It is up to them to safely guide the civilians left on Reach out of the crossfire and to another solar system where they can set a course for another human colony following the Cole Protocol. </p>
<p>That is, unless Derek-A143, one of the last survivors of the SPARTAN-III Alpha Company, murders Major Stilinski's son first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to New Alexandria

**Author's Note:**

> Because no one knows how much I love Halo and sometimes I need to write other things. 
> 
> If you're familiar with the Halo verse, go ahead and skip the preface; I won't be hurt. 
> 
> Playlist can be found [here](https://8tracks.com/comedownchampion/reach) and if you are really concerned about who exactly dies, look [here](http://thecomedownchampion.tumblr.com/post/73070388882/people-who-die-in-reach-revisited)

**Preface**

On February 3, 2525, humanity came into contact with the Covenant Empire for the first time when a ship dropped out of slipspace and was discovered by a Kig-Yar frigate called _Minor Transgression._ The Kig-Yar began to raid ships from Harvest, a Unified Earth Government agriculture world located in the Epsilon Indi System. The distress calls from the raided ships prompted a military response from the United Nations Space Command, who then set up a trap for the Kig-Yar frigate. When the Covenant sent another ship, the UNSC used pictograms to attempt negotiation, but the Prophets were not interested.

The Covenant Empire is comprised of eight alien species:

The San ‘Shyuum, colloquially known as Prophets, are the Covenant leaders. Despite being physically weak, they control all political and religious affairs. Their word is law. Prophets are relatively short with small, wide-set eyes and long necks. Their skulls are relatively flat but they have large hands. By the other races of the Covenant, they are often addressed as “Hierarchs”, “Noble Hierarchs”, “Holy Ones”, or “Exalted”.  

The second highest ranking species are the Sangheili, called Elites by humans. The Elites serve as military leaders. It is they who organize military campaigns and act as tacticians. They ensure that the Prophets’ orders are followed and considered themselves to be a fundamentally “better” race than those who rank below them. They can only advance their military ranks through honorable achievement and are the only Covenant species who have a voice within the High Council of Prophets. In appearance, Elites are tall and muscular with four separate mandibles. Their eyes are located on either side of their heads and they are four fingered, walking on two elephant-like toes.

The Jiralhanae, known as Brutes, are the closest in rank to Elites. Their own ranks go up to War Chieftains and they are fierce soldiers with tough hides. Though their technology is not as advanced as the rest of the Covenant’s, it is well-made and equally as deadly. Though they are shorter than Elites, they are more thickly built. Like Elites, they have four fingers and two thick toes, but their jaw structure more closely resembles a human’s and they lack the arched neck characteristic of the Sangheili.

The Huragok, called Engineers, are an artificial race created by the Forerunners. They communicate only in their own language and expertise in excavation and the gathering of data, acting as the scientific backbone of the Covenant. It is suspected that they are prisoners or slaves. They have small heads with six eyes and four tentacles that can split into fine cilia for precision. The bulk of their body is a bulbous, gas-filled bladder that keeps them afloat in mid-air.

The Mgalekgolo, or Hunters, are hulking berserkers made up of many worm-like creatures called Lekgolo coalescing in two sets of heavy armor, making them Bond Brothers. They are the strongest fighters and carry powerful assault canons and shields.

The Yanme, called Drones, were the Covenant’s previous engineers before the Huragok were discovered. They now serve as aerial combatants. They are human-sized, but insect-like in appearance despite a lack in genetic relation. Their bodies have five segments: the head, a cephalothorax, a thorax, a pelvis, and an abdomen. On their heads, they have a pair of antennae and two compound eyes, and they have a mouth like an insect’s with two mandibles. In total, they have eight limbs: two arms, two wings, and four legs; and their bodies are protected with hard exoskeletons.

The Kig-Yar, known as Jackals, are the second lowest of the Covenant caste system and act as scouts and sharpshooters. Jackals grow up to 5’6” and have lean, stocky bodies with features similar to birds of prey or reptiles. Like birds, their legs are reverse-jointed but their long snouts and mouths are reptilian in nature. They often have plumages of spiny quills on the backs of their heads and elbows.

The lowest ranking species in the Covenant are the Unggoy, or Grunts. As their common name suggests, they are the foot soldiers of the Covenant military. They are short with thick forearms, calves, and feet, and they are close in relation to arthropods. Their feet have three toes facing forward and one located on the back of the foot for support. Unlike the rest of the Covenant, they must be equipped with air tanks and masks, as they breathe methane.

The entire basis of the Covenant Empire’s culture and religion is the ancient race of beings called the Forerunners. The Forerunner Empire spanned three million fertile worlds across the Milky Way Galaxy 100,000 years ago. Before mysteriously disappearing, the Forerunners lived on the belief system that it was their duty to nurture the galaxy and pave the way of wisdom and glory for the race that would be their successors, which they called the Reclaimer.

The Forerunners left behind highly advanced artifacts such as the Halo Array, seven massive ring worlds across the galaxy; and the Covenant based most of their technology on the works of the Forerunners. To the Covenant, the Forerunners were gods, referred to as “the Ancients”, and it is believed that their disappearance is linked to their ascension to trans-sentient divinity by use of the Halo Array. The Covenant believe that their duty is the “Reclamation” of Forerunner artifacts and their single goal is to activate the Halo Array and follow the Forerunners’ legacy, rising to godhood themselves. This is the Great Journey. To realize their goal, they utilize an Artificial Intelligence unit that was created by the Forerunners, called 05-032 Mendicant Bias. 

When the Covenant sent a second ship to investigate the destruction of the Kig-Yar frigate, the Luminary—a device created by the Covenant to detect Forerunner artifacts—listed an alarmingly large number of relics on Harvest. Upon consulting 05-032 Mendicant Bias, it was found that the word “Reclamation” was a mistranslation of “Reclaimer”, and the humans were the chosen inheritors. In order to protect their religion and empire, the few Prophets who knew the truth kept it secret and labeled the humans Heretics, declaring a war of extermination on humanity. This led to the eventual annihilation and glassing of Harvest, forcing the humans to retreat to Reach, a human colony world with a powerful UNSC presence located in the Epsilon Eridani system 10.5 light years from Earth’s solar system.

Now in the year 2552, the Covenant have found Reach in the pursuit of a Forerunner artifact located on the planet. The UNSC has a plan to end the war once and for all, but it requires the aid of the SPARTANs, Dr. Catherine Halsey’s elite biologically enhanced super-soldiers. Without the SPARTANs, Reach, and all of humanity, will surely fall.

 

 

**Major Stilinski**

_Those SPARTANs sure are tall._ That’s all Stilinski can think the first time he meets Colonel Urban Holland and Noble Team B in New Alexandria’s ONI facility. Behind Holland are six SPARTAN soldiers, their MJOLNIR Mark V armor making them look like something straight out of a science fiction movie, though Stilinski has the sinking feeling that the polarized faceplates on their helmets are designed to keep them anonymous and impersonal; dehumanizing them in the likely outcome that they fall in battle.

Stilinski salutes Holland with a brisk movement. “Glad to see you, Colonel.”

“And you, Major.” Holland returns the salute. “Though I’ll admit, I would prefer better circumstances.”

“Indeed.” Stilinski purses his lips. “Things are looking grim. The Battle of Viery was a failure. The _Grafton_ and _Savannah_ were destroyed. SPARTAN-052 is dead. And now we’re facing a full-scale assault by the _Fleet of Particular Justice._ ”

“But the rest of Noble Team A is alive,” says Holland, “and now Team B is here for backup. There is still hope.”

“Yes,” Stilinski concedes. “There is still hope.”

With a grim smile, Holland claps the shoulder of the SPARTAN closest to him, the tallest, and says, “Allow me to introduce you to Commander Laura-016 of Noble Team B.”

The SPARTAN steps forward and depolarizes the front of her helmet, revealing a woman with dark hair and hazel eyes. She gives Stilinski a tight smile out of politeness and salutes.

Stilinski raises his own hand to salute when one of the SPARTANs behind the commander turns to the side. Stilinski reads the serial number A143 on the bicep of the SPARTAN’s armor as s/he walks over to the wall that divides the main room from the hallway. There’s a squawk and Stilinski groans as the SPARTAN returns, carrying a young marine over his/her shoulder.

The SPARTAN drops the marine unceremoniously in front of Stilinski, asking in a male voice, “Is it normal for your marines to spy on official business?”

Stilinski sighs as the marine climbs to his feet, running a hand through his wild hair; clearly the kid has been skipping out on the standard issue haircuts. “No,” Stilinski says. “This one is mine.”

The marine gives Stilinski a strained smile, raising a hand awkwardly. His pale face is slightly flushed and his hair is sticking up like he went through a wind storm. “Hey, Dad. How’s the meeting going?”

Stilinski gives his son a long suffering look. “We’ll talk about this later. There are important matters I have to discuss with Colonel Holland. In the meantime, you can lead the commander and her team to their quarters to settle in. I expect to see you in my office after you give them a general tour.”

“Yes, sir.” The marine salutes and starts walking toward the hall, followed by the SPARTANs.

 

 

**Private First Class Stilinski**

“Welcome to New Alexandria’s Office of Naval Intelligence. I’m Private First Class Stilinski and I will be your tour guide on this fine afternoon,” says Stiles as he leads the SPARTANs past offices and laboratories. “The weather today is partially cloudy with a chance of Covenant missiles and devastating explosions.”

He hears a snort behind him and counts it as a victory, even if he has no idea which of the SPARTANs it was. Stiles wouldn’t call himself short, but he cannot help but feel slightly vertically challenged in the presence of the super soldiers. The shortest of them stands just over Stiles’ own height of 5’9” at 5’10”, with the rest following at 6’2”, 6’4”, 6’5”, 6’6”, and the commander—Laura, he thinks her name was—at 7’.

“This isn’t a joking matter,” says the SPARTAN of 6’4”. Stiles’ recognizes his voice as the one who carried him to his father, A143.

“You need to lighten up,” says Stiles. “Eat a Snickers or something.”

“A what?”

Stiles freezes and turns to give SPARTAN-A143 an offended look. “A Snickers? You know, the chocolate bar? _Really?_ ”

The SPARTAN shakes his head and Stiles leads on with a sound of disgust. He shows Noble Team B where the gym, the armory, and the firing range are and where the mess hall is. Along the way, he points out the bathrooms to them. He closes the tour with their sleeping quarters, all located at the end of the same hall where they can contact each other quickly in a state of emergency. The entire time they walk, he provides a running commentary.

“And that’s everything you really need to know right now, so I guess I’ll just…” Stiles stares blankly at the SPARTANs’ faceplates. “You know, that is really creepy. The only one of you I’ve seen depolarize the screen of their helmet is the commander, and that was just to be polite. It’s like I’m talking to a bunch of robots.”

“Why do you need to see our faces so badly? We’re soldiers.” And yep, there’s A143.

“First of all, there are tons of movies where the heroes infiltrate the evil lair by stealing the guards’ armor. You know why they succeed? It’s because no one can see their faces behind the helmets. I could totally be talking to an Elite right now and I’d have no idea,” says Stiles. “Second of all, maybe you’re not just super soldiers, but also super _ugly_ and that’s why you’re so cagey about people seeing your faces.”

“Looks don’t matter,” SPARTAN-A143 argues. “I reiterate the fact that we are soldiers. We fight to win or die.”

“That’s really morbid. Don’t you want to have a super soldier girlfriend?”

“Humankind is at _war._ No one has time for romantic relationships.”

“Au contraire, Leonidas. I have a good friend who dated a SPARTAN. The guy was a douche, but it was ‘ _true love_ ’.”

“Which SPARTAN was it?” asks SPARTAN-B315, the second shortest, in a male voice.

“Jackson-B291,” says Stiles. “They were together until he got himself killed in action a few months back.”

“I remember him talking about a girl,” says SPARTAN-B226—female. “We all knew him; he grew up with me, Scott, Isaac, and Boyd.”

“SPARTAN-III Beta Company, right?”

“Yeah. Is your friend a soldier?”

“Nope!” Stiles grins. “Astrophysicist—and the most brilliant one the UNSC has seen in years. Her name is Lydia Martin, and fun fact: I was head over heels in love with her for the majority of my adolescent life _._ So are all of you from the Beta Company?”

SPARTAN-B315 shakes his head, pointing at A143. “He’s from the Alpha Company and Commander Laura is from the SPARTAN-II Program.”

“Okay, you guys need to explain the differences between all these companies and programs to me sometime,” says Stiles. “Of course, I would love to ask Dr. Halsey herself, but my dad will let me talk to Dr. Halsey when _hell_ freezes over. I think he’s scared I’ll embarrass him or something.”

SPARTAN-A143 mumbles, “I wonder why,” prompting a chuckle from his fellow SPARTANs.

“Hey, I heard that. What makes you think I’d embarrass him?”

“Well for one thing, you were caught spying on an official meeting,” says SPARTAN-B176—another male. “And then you were literally carried out of hiding.”

“Okay, so there was _one_ incident…”

“Since we’ve been here.”

“Since you’ve been here, yes. There may have been others before, but you can’t prove it. It’s like Schrodinger’s Cat; I could have embarrassed my dad, but I also could not have embarrassed my dad. And if you try to look through incident reports to find out if I did—well, let’s just say that in trying to observe these reports, _someone_ could change them.” Stiles grins triumphantly.

“I don’t know if I like him or if I find him irritating,” says SPARTAN-B226.

“I think he’s funny,” SPARTAN-B315 quips.  

“Irritating. _Definitely_ irritating,” says SPARTAN-A143.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some business to get to.”

“You mean Daddy-o is going to give you shit for embarrassing him in front of the colonel,” says Commander Laura.

Stiles gives the SPARTANS the middle finger as he walks away, even though Laura is probably right.  

 

Laura was definitely right.

“Stiles, when you do things like that, and especially in front of my superiors, it damages my integrity as an authority figure,” says his father. “I give you enough leeway as it is. Now if someone decides that I’m letting you get away with too much and that having my own son under my command impairs my judgement as a leader, they will not hesitate to reassign you to a different facility under a different supervisor.”

“Yes, Dad,” says Stiles. “I understand.”

“Part of that means addressing me as your superior.”

“Yes, Major.”

“To demonstrate as much, it follows that I must give you a fitting punishment.”

“ _Dad_ …”

“Thus it seems only suitable to me that I assign you to tend to Noble Team B.”

Stiles’ head shoots up in shock and he gapes at his father.

“You will make sure that they know their way around the facility and aid in base to unit communication on the field, do you understand?” says Major Stilinski.

Stiles laughs, smiling brilliantly, and he leans across the desk to hug his father. “Dad, you’re the best!”

The Major gives Stiles a stern look. “I mean it though: don’t embarrass me again. This is your last chance. And don’t harass the SPARTANs; they’re here as soldiers, not show and tell.”

“I understand,” says Stiles. “I promise I won’t let you down again.”

“Good. As long as you keep that promise.”

 

 

**SPARTAN-A143**

The first thing Derek does when he’s alone in his quarters is search his room. The walls, ceilings, and floors are lined with cement, breaking only for the air vents. The nightstand contains a few nondescript toiletries and underwear, and the small metal wardrobe is filled with standard issue t-shirts and sweatpants. On the desk is a file containing a preliminary report and next to it is a duffel bag that was brought down earlier full of Derek’s own belongings.

When he has gone through every last inch of the room (including a search beneath the mattress of the bed) and has confirmed that there are no concealed explosives or cameras, he finally removes his helmet, taking in a deep breath. The air isn’t fresh, but it always feels like resurfacing from underwater when he first breathes in air that hasn’t been recycled too many times. Derek sits at the desk to read over the report.

On July 24, 2552, Noble Team A was ordered by Colonel Urban Holland to investigate the sudden loss of radio transmission from the Visegrad Relay Communications Outpost. The suspected cause was a group of insurrectionists remaining after Operation: CLEAN SWEEP. What was found instead was a group of Covenant. Noble Team A managed to regain control of the outpost and recover a survivor. The data they retrieved from the consoles was sent to Dr. Catherine Halsey at the Sword Base.

The discovery of the Covenant Strike Force led to the Battle of Viery on the 12th of August, an attempt by the UNSC to blitz the Covenant before their fleet arrived. While Noble Team A succeeded in deactivating the EMP shield protecting Spire One, allowing the UNSC to destroy it with a MAC strike from the UNSC _Grafton._ Following the spire’s destruction, it was found that the structure was being utilized as a cloaking device for a _CSO_ -class supercarrier. The Supercarrier devastated UNSC forces and destroyed the _Grafton_ , leaving the UNSC with no choice but to retreat. The Supercarrier then took cover in Covenant-occupied space in orbit over Reach.

On the 14th, Operation: UPPERCUT was executed by the UNSC army, navy, and Noble Team A to destroy the Covenant Supercarrier. In the absence of any nuclear weapons or large orbital assets, the plan was to plant a makeshift bomb derived from a Shaw-Fujikawa Translight Engine (or slipspace drive) onto the Supercarrier while ground forces defended the launch facility. Noble Five (SPARTAN-052) and Noble Six (SPARTAN-B312) fronted the operation in a YSS-1000 _Sabre_ class fighter along with four other Sabres to rendezvous with the UNSC _Savannah._ The _Savannah_ ’s modified slipspace drive was mounted on a D77-TC Pelican dropship for transport. Before the plan could be further executed, the Sabres were forced to defend Anchor 9 of the _Savannah_ from Covenant starships. Once clear, Noble Five boarded the Pelican, which was then escorted to the Covenant corvette, _Ardent Prayer._ The _Savannah_ served as a distraction while the Covenant corvette was commandeered in order to covertly plant the slipspace bomb on the Covenant Supercarrier.

While the UNSC gained control of the corvette, the _Savannah_ succumbed to the Covenant barrage and was destroyed. Further complications were encountered when it was found that damage done to the Covenant corvette blocked its path back to the Sabres, thus the only way off the ship was a space jump, and the timer on the slipspace bomb was disabled by plasma fire, requiring it to be detonated manually. Noble Six was forced to evacuate the Covenant corvette while Noble Five sacrificed himself to destroy the Supercarrier in a slipspace rupture. While successful, only minutes later a portion of the Covenant _Fleet of Particular Justice_ arrived.

Derek lets out a long breath. _Things are looking grim_ , Major Stilinski had said. _Grim_ is a vast understatement. Derek barely has a moment of respite before there’s a light tap on his door, and he knows instantly that it’s Laura. He gets up and exits his quarters to join the rest of Noble Team B in the hallway where they stand, trading unsure glances. Laura stands in the middle with her arms crossed over her chest authoritatively.

“I trust you’ve all read the report?” she asks.

There is a collective affirmative murmur.

“Your thoughts?”

“We’re fucked,” says Erica bluntly. Her chin-length blonde hair bounces around her face when she shakes her head.

“The SPARTANs were made for fighting against impossible odds,” says Scott, but he has that wounded look in his warm brown eyes that says he’s grasping at straws.

“Erica has a point,” Isaac adds reluctantly. He looks from SPARTAN to SPARTAN with an almost guilty expression.

“We were made for facing the impossible, but there are some odds that even we aren’t a match for,” Derek finally agrees.  

“Reinforcements are on the way,” says Laura.

“Better be some damn good reinforcements,” mumbles Boyd.

Laura stands up a little taller, looking proud. “The SPARTAN-IIs.”

Derek blinks. “ _All_ of them?”

“ _All_ of them.” Laura is practically beaming. “I hope I get to see Joshua.”

Scott smirks and Isaac raises his eyebrows at him. Laura smacks them lightly on the arms with the back of her knuckles.

“Shut up, we grew up together. We’re all like one oversized, dysfunctional family.”

“Getting back to business,” says Derek helpfully, “when do we mobilize?”

“Unless something major arises, tomorrow,” says Laura. “I am meeting with Dr. Halsey.”

The SPARTAN-IIIs freeze and trade wary glances.

Laura rolls her eyes. “I’m not asking you to come with me.”

There’s a collective sigh of relief.

“I don’t get why you’re all so scared of her.” She shakes her head.

“She’s territorial,” says Boyd.

“Like a pissed-off cat,” Erica affirms.

“Then you can all stay here.” Laura tromps to her room and re-emerges moments later with her helmet on. “Derek, you’re coming with me.”

Derek nods and retrieves his own helmet from his room, fitting it over his head before accompanying his commanding officer down the hall and up the stairs to the main floor. He walks next to and slightly behind her respectfully.

“Permission to speak freely, commander?” asks Derek.

“Permission granted,” says Laura.

“Why are you taking me with you?”

“You won’t be coming into the meeting with me.”

“Then…?”

Laura turns to Derek. “If we cross paths with Noble Team A…”

Derek shakes his head. “No.”

“Derek, they’re the last living members of the Alpha Company.”

“I haven’t seen them in _years._ ” Derek worked with Jun for a few years after they’d been pulled from the rest of the Alpha Company, but it had been several more since they had fought side by side.

“I’m giving you the chance I never had,” Laura says stiffly.

Derek goes still. “I’m sorry. SPARTAN-052…”

“Jorge,” Laura corrects. “He was a good man. Loved Reach like no one else. He wasn’t John, but people respected him.” Laura stopped Derek in front of a room on the second floor. “Wait here. I probably won’t be long.”

Derek salutes Laura, watches her open the door and cringe as Dr. Catherine Halsey immediately greets her by name. The door shuts quietly behind Laura and Derek hears the hum of the two women speaking without picking up individual words. Derek ends up waiting for twenty minutes before Laura exits the office. Dr. Halsey stands in the doorway and observes Derek for a moment with her cool blue eyes.

“SPARTAN-A143,” she says, inclining her head.

“Doctor.” Derek stands at attention.

“How are you finding SPARTAN-016’s command?”

“She is a strong and dedicated leader, ma’am. I could not ask for a better superior.”

Halsey smirks slightly, looking smug. “Good.” And without further preamble, she steps back into her office and lets the door slide shut.

Laura stands still for a moment before gesturing for Derek to follow her back down the hall toward their quarters. When they reach the stairwell, Laura says, “Congratulations, A143. You have survived for first encounter with Dr. Halsey.”

Derek huffs. “What do you think of her?”

“On the one hand, she’s the reason I’ve lived a life of constant war. But on the other hand, she’s the only maternal figure I’ve ever known,” says Laura. “I suppose I feel the same about her as you feel about Lieutenant Commander Ambrose.”

The comment gives Derek pause for only a brief second before he retorts, “Kurt didn’t make me like this.”

Even with her visor polarized, Derek can tell Laura is smiling. “No, I suppose that was Ackerson. Kurt always was soft; Ackerson was an asshole, but he couldn’t have chosen a better mentor for the SPARTAN-IIIs.”

Derek feels a small swell of pride before a thought hits him. “You have feelings for him, don’t you?”

“Used to,” Laura confesses. “When we were young and he hadn’t disappeared into space.”

“I guess you could say he was the one that got away.”

Laura whips around to stare at Derek incredulously. “Derek Ambrose, did you just make a _joke?_ ”

“Ambrose?”

“Don’t pretend Kurt isn’t your daddy at heart. I am recording this day in my personal calendar.”

Derek smirks a little despite himself as they continue toward their quarters.

 

 

**Private First Class Stilinski**

When Stiles first goes searching for the SPARTANs, his eyes pass right over them before he double takes and sees Laura. They’re all seated at a table in the mess hall, and with the signature helmets of their MJOLNIR armor off, Stiles hadn’t initially recognized the SPARTANs. It hits Stiles that the SPARTAN-IIIs are only a little taller than the average person and he makes a mental note to dig into the archives to find out how the SPARTAN-III Program’s augmentation differed from the SPARTAN-II Program.

For now, Stiles takes the time to examine the SPARTANs. He knows that the SPARTAN-IIs are all at least 40 years old, but Laura looks younger. Her dark hair is cropped short for wearing under her helmet and her eyes are battle-worn, but kind. The SPARTAN-IIIs all look about Stiles’ age. The tallest of them, SPARTAN-B012, is dark skinned and dark eyed, his face impassive. SPARTAN-B176 has curly, light brown hair and bright blue eyes—his expression reminds Stiles a little of a serial killer. SPARTAN-B315 has olive-toned skin, dark eyes, dark hair, and a sweet, dopy smile. SPARTAN-B226 has brown eyes and wavy blonde hair down to her chin. She has a predatory look that probably makes marines fall all over themselves to follow her orders.

Stiles frowns and counts the SPARTANs again; there are five of them at the table; there are supposed to be six. Where’s SPARTAN-A143?

Stiles tries to walk over to the table casually, trips over a chair leg, bumps into another marine, and eventually collapses into the seat next to SPARTAN-B315 with a smile.

“Hey, Space Cowboys. How’s it going?” he asks.

SPARTAN-B176 raises his eyebrows. “Space Cowboys?”

“It was that or asking how the fight against the Persians is going.”

“You either know your history really well or you’re really desperate to make a joke,” says SPARTAN-B226.

Stiles lifts his hands in surrender. “Kitty’s got claws.”

“Kitty also probably has 20lbs on you and could bench-press your ass.”

“Point taken.”

SPARTAN-B226 smirks at him.

“You guys should probably tell me your names, because otherwise I’m just going to think of you as your serial numbers and that would be pretty difficult to yell out in a hurry if I’m dying,” says Stiles.

“I’m Scott,” says SPARTAN-B315.

“Erica.” SPARTAN-B226.

“Isaac.” SPARTAN-B176.

“Boyd.” SPARTAN-B012.

“Nice to meet you all properly,” says Stiles with a grin.

“What brings you here, Private Stilinski?” asks Laura. “Are we needed?”

“Just call me Stiles; Stilinski is my father—and no. I’ve been assigned to you, so I guess your orders are mine.” Stiles gestures at the five of them. “So where’s A143?”

“He’s at the shooting range,” says Isaac.

“Or that’s what he tells us anyway,” says Scott. He gives Stiles a conspiratory smile. “But really, that’s just code for brooding.”

“SPARTAN-A143 broods? That is… entirely unsurprising. He seemed a little like the brooding type from his discourse.” Stiles nods thoughtfully.

Scott snickers. “Yep. I mean granted, the guy has kind of earned his brooding rights.”

“Yeah?” asks Stiles. “Tell me about Leonidas.”

Scott looks around and the rest of the SPARTAN-IIIs roll their eyes. Scott leans toward Stiles and says, “Well, as you know, he’s from the Alpha Company. He got pulled out of the group just before they had this huge mission, Operation—”

Without warning, a white blur comes flying through the air and hits Scott in the back of the head, making him cry out. Stiles jumps with shock and watches as a plastic spoon clatters to the floor.

“Not another word, Scott.”

Stiles raises his eyes to see SPARTAN-A143 stride over to the table, helmet still on. He purses his lips and lets out a low whistle. “Leonidas knows how to make an entrance.”

“Scott needs to mind his own business,” says SPARTAN-A143. “And _you_ need to stop encouraging him. Letting the two of you meet was a recipe for disaster.”

Scott rubs the back of his head, pouting at Derek. “I’m just being friendly.”

“We’re here on a mission, Scott.”

“Chill out, Leonidas,” says Stiles.

“ _Stop calling me that_.”

“What, don’t you get it? He was the king of the Spartan warriors.”

“Yes, I got it. And it wasn’t funny or clever the first time.”

“Tell me your name and I’ll stop calling you Leonidas.”

“You don’t need to know my name.”

“ _Come on._ ”

“I don’t _want_ you to know my name.”

“Why not?”

“ _Because we are at war!_ ”

The room falls silent and all eyes turned to Stiles and the SPARTAN. Erica, Scott, Isaac, and Boyd avert their eyes, faces going solemn. Laura is looking at Stiles with pity.

“Do you know why the SPARTAN-IIIs were made?” SPARTAN-A143 asks.

“Because normal humans aren’t strong enough. We can’t do the things that you can do,” Stiles says quietly.

“No,” says SPARTAN-A143. “That’s why the SPARTAN-IIs were made. The SPARTAN-IIIs were made to be expendable. We were made specifically to carry out suicide missions. That’s why all of the SPARTAN-IIs were kidnapped. That’s why the SPARTAN-IIIs are orphans. _No one cares about us._ We’re known by our first names and a serial number so that people don’t get attached to us. We fight and we die. That is why we exist.”

Stiles swallows hard. Jesus Christ, this guy is an asshole. He steels himself and stands up straight, letting his eyes meet the faceplate of SPARTAN-A143’s helmet. “I want to know your name because I have hope. Because even though the situation is dire, the life hasn’t been crushed from me yet. We may be at war right now, but we won’t be forever. And when it’s over, we have to pick up our lives and find a way to live like human beings again.

“Not everyone has to live like you; pretending every breath you take is your last. And yeah, maybe it _could_ be, but that’s not how to live. Dr. Halsey and her fancy-ass team of scientists and all of the UNSC taught you how to fight, but they never taught you how to live. So when this all ends and everyone else is moving on, you’re still going to be clutching your gun and waiting for orders because you live you’re dying and you don’t know what else to do with yourself. You don’t even know how to be a _person_.”

Head held high, Stiles leaves the mess hall. He feels the eyes of all of the SPARTANs and every marine on him as he goes, but he doesn’t look back.

 

 

**SPARTAN-016**

To her complete and utter lack of surprise, Laura finds SPARTAN-A143 in the shooting range. She stands back, leaning against the wall next to the doorway with her arms crossed as she surveys the area. The room has thick cement walls and row upon row of neat cubicles of soundproof glass separating the soldiers from the targets forming equidistant rows along the opposite wall about 100 meters away. Derek is stationed at the cubicle to the far right from the door, helmet on in lieu of earmuffs. Not that Derek has any need for earmuffs; none of the SPARTANs have since before augmentation, and even then they had grown long used to the sound of gunfire. Laura is certain that Derek heard her entry, but he falsifies his ignorance, continuing to reach through the square hole in the soundproof glass to fire bullet after bullet into the furthermost target with an MG6 magnum sidearm.

“SPARTAN,” says Laura.

Derek immediately lowers his weapon and turns to his commanding officer, standing at attention. “Yes, Commander?”

“I suggest you stop wasting the UNSC’s ammo by pretending that target is a certain loud-mouthed marine.” She presses her lips together.

“It would be very unprofessional of me if that was what I was doing,” Derek says neutrally.

Laura raises his eyebrows. “And you are too old to be letting the words of a child get to you. The kid’s barely out of his teens.”

“I know.” Derek’s voice is frustrated despite his perfect, rigid posture. “It’s just that he’s right.”

“Look, I’m not a psychologist, Derek, and neither is he. But what I am is your superior. No more sulking—and that’s an order. I know that as a SPARTAN-III, you’re not used to marines confronting you so boldly, but you cannot let your emotions override your duty. Just get over it for now and do what you have to do. If you survive the war, then you can worry about functioning in normal society. But until then, don’t bother worrying about it.”

“Candidly speaking,” says Derek, “I’m just practicing at the firing range. Why the lecture?”

“Because you don’t need practice; your aim is fucking impeccable and you are full of shit,” says Laura. “Furthermore, part of your duty is to keep yourself in top form. That means eating. You stormed out of the mess hall as soon as that kid was out of sight. So you can put the gun down and get some food. Am I understood?”

“I take it that’s an order too?”

Laura sneers in response to Derek’s sarcasm. “Get out of here, Ambrose.”

Derek disassembles the magnum with stiff, rushed movements without looking away from Laura before he puts it away. He murmurs, “Yes, ma’am,” with a gruff voice as he brushes past her. Laura knows that Derek hates being treated like a child more than anything, but she can come to terms with him being angry at her. She glances at the target Derek had victimized and smirks. The bastard is a crack shot when he’s pissed off.    

 

Private First Class Stilinski’s quarters are Laura’s next stop for the evening. His room is not located far from the SPARTANs’, so it doesn’t take long for Laura to find it just around the corner and down twenty feet. She knocks on the door and stands tall, hands behind her back in a neutral stance. Stilinski opens the door moments later, bright brown eyes widening slightly as he raises his chin to look up at the SPARTAN-II. He stands at attention.

“Yes, ma’am?” Stilinski asks.

“Private Stilinski, I wanted to speak about your previous behaviour with my team—particularly where Noble Eight is concerned,” says Laura.

“Who?”

“SPARTAN-A143.”

The corners of Stilinski’s mouth twitch as he holds back a grimace but the nervous bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallows is unmistakable. “I want to apologize for that. It was childish and worse: impetuous. I did not mean to disrespect you.”

“On the contrary, your observation was very astute,” says Laura.

Stilinski blinks with surprise. “Ma’am?”

“We grew up under very different circumstances from you,” she clarifies.

Stilinski chuckles a little nervously. “That’s definitely true. I grew up with school friends and virtual guns. You grew up with soldiers and actual guns.”

Laura smirks. “That’s definitely true. But I actually didn’t come for an apology. I need to know if you are going to be able to fight by Noble Eight’s side. I know that you two got off on the wrong foot and I can’t have in-fighting when we have the Covenant to worry about.”

“I understand,” says Stilinski. “I give you my word that it won’t be a problem.”

“Actions speak louder than words, Stilinski,” says Laura. “You are dismissed.”

Laura is about to turn to leave when Stilinski flails.

“Wait! Ah, could I make a request?”

Laura raises an eyebrow at him. “Yes?”

Stilinski’s face reddens and he says, “Call me Stiles. Just Stiles.”

“Stiles?” Laura tips her head thoughtfully. “Very well. Stiles it is.”

A grin breaks out across the marine’s face. “Thanks! Goodnight, Commander!”

“Get some sleep, Stiles. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.” Laura waves a hand absently as she walks down the hall. She’ll probably spend the next three hours going over three hours going over the mission and setting up plans.    

 

 

**SPARTAN-A143**

By 0600 hours, Noble Team B, Private First Class Stilinski, and a unit of ten marines are gathered in a conference room to discuss their impending mission. No one sits at the long, ovular table, but instead gathers around it in clusters based on affiliation. Laura stands at the head of the table in her dark blue armor with the rest of Noble Team B directly to her right. Stilinski hangs back to Laura’s left, at attention but limbs twitching like he’s itching to run his motor mouth complete with wild hand gestures. As it is, he’s intermittently tapping his thumb against the side of his index finger while clenching and unclenching his jaw. The team of marines drift further down the left side of the table, fronted by the unit’s leader, a wild-haired man in his early forties called Corporal Finstock. The SPARTANs are all fully decked in their MJOLNIR armor and the marines, including Stilinski, are suited up for battle in their own UNSC armor-layered fatigues and helmets.  

“Is this everyone?” asks Laura.

“Yes, Commander. All members of Delta-03 are present and accounted for,” says Finstock.

“Alright.” Laura leans back, making herself appear even taller. “The battle for Reach broke out fast and with little-to-no warning. As such, there are a lot of civilians caught in the crossfire here in New Alexandria. Our mission objective is to get Dr. Peter Hale and his research team to the Manassas Spaceport where they can be safely transported out of orbit to another colonized planet. We’ll be taking two M12G1 Warthog LAAVs and a Behemoth-class Troop Transport for Dr. Hale’s team.

“For the purpose of this mission, you will refer to me as Commander or Noble Seven. SPARTAN-A143—” Laura indicates Derek in his olive green armor “—will be Noble Eight. SPARTAN-B315—” Scott in his white armor “—is Noble Nine. B176—” Isaac in teal armor “—will be Noble Ten. B226—” Erica, whose armor is bright red “—will be Noble Eleven. And finally, B012—” Boyd with yellow armor “—will be Noble Twelve; which should be easy to remember. And if ‘Stilinski’ proves to be a bit of a mouthful, just call him Thirteen.”

Stilinski raises his hand. “Um, excuse me. Commander?”

Derek sighs, rolling his eyes behind his helmet.

“Yes, Private?” says Laura.

“How come I don’t get ‘Noble’ in front of my number?” he asks.

“Because there is nothing _noble_ about you, Stiles.”

Stilinski’s jaw drops with affront. “I can be _noble!_ ”

Laura’s voice comes out sounding amused. “Then you can prove it to me with this mission. Am I clear?”

“Very clear, ma’am. Like crystal, except not when it’s in the sunlight because then it does that reflecting thing and refraction distorts your visual perception…” Stilinski trails off as he feels several pairs of judging eyes. He crosses his arms over his chest and turns to Finstock, shaking his head and shrugging like he can’t believe the way he’s being treated.

“Corporal Finstock, do you have anything to add?” asks Laura.

“Yes, actually. Shut up, Stilinski,” he says, pointing a finger at the marine. “If I have to deal with your blabbermouth for this whole mission, I might have to shoot off my own remaining testicle, and that will not be a pleasant experience for anyone in the vicinity. You got that?”

“Yeah, we’re cool.” Stilinski’s voice is strained and he’s grimacing.

“Glad to hear it. Other than that, we’re all ready to go, Commander.”  

“Good. Go fetch Dr. Hale and his researchers and we’ll meet you in the hangar when everyone is armed. Let’s get this show on the road.” 


	2. Fight and Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I listened to this song so much while writing this chapter.  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DCrL76vGpNA

**SPARTAN-A143**

Derek has never been a religious man, but he is starting to get the sneaking suspicion that there is in fact a god, and that this god for reasons unknown despises him. The plan is to rotate shifts in the troop transporter (better known as the Elephant) every two hours since it travels so slowly. Laura has assigned Derek to the first shift. Laura has also assigned Private Stilinski to the first shift. Private Stilinski and Dr. Hale have found kindred spirits within one another and are currently making Derek’s life a living hell.

“You call him Leonidas?” asks Dr. Hale. He has an amused smirk on his face.

“Yep. He won’t tell me his name, so he can be the King of the Spartans,” says Stilinski. Derek would like very much to grab the BR85HB SR battle rifle strapped to the marine’s back and beat him with it. “Which is also a pun because ‘spartan’ is an adjective for laconicism and a person with rigorous self-discipline.” To death.

Derek scowls despite knowing that they can’t see it; but from the entertained look on Dr. Hale’s face as he looks over at him, he knows.

“I can see what you mean,” says Dr. Hale. “He has a very distinctive discourse. By which I mean there is less discourse and more soul-sucking mental anguish coming from his general direction. Kind of like a black hole that sucks in happiness.”

Stilinski snickers. “That is one of the most apt descriptions I have heard yet.”

“If my attitude bothers you, Dr. Hale, I could just as easily take over in the Warthog for Noble Nine and _he_ can babysit you,” Derek deadpans.

“On the contrary, I find your company to be rather pleasant,” says Dr. Hale. “You could say that I find your brand of cynicism refreshing. And call me Peter.”

“No.”

“Think of me like an uncle.”

“ _Definitely_ no.”

“You’re a little short on family, I’m sure you could use it.”

“I don’t like you.”

Dr. Hale chuckles. “Isn’t he fun?”

“I have to admit it,” says Stilinski, “when he’s resigned to his fate, Leonidas is a pretty funny guy. I could get used to this.”

“Please don’t.” Derek locks his eyes with the ceiling, praying to any deity that will listen to free him from this special brand of torture.

“So tell me, Pete: what are you researching anyway?” asks Stilinski.

“Well before I was interrupted by the arrival of the Covenant, my research team and I were busy looking into the idea of regeneration,” says Dr. Hale.

“You and every other super-villain.”

“Plenty of animals can do it—octopuses will regrow arms, holothuroidea will expunge their own intestines to trick predators before regenerating them. Imagine if you could inject a dying soldier with some stem cells carrying some very special genes and they could heal within minutes and fight again. The technology would save lives.”

“Okay, I’ll admit it: that’s pretty cool. So you’re isolating the genes responsible for this regeneration in different species and trying to find a human-compatible variety?”

“Very good, Stiles,” says Dr. Hale. “You should be on my research team.”

As Stilinski continues to talk to Dr. Hale and his research team, Derek taps into the communications with the rest of Team Noble.

“How’s it looking out there?” asks Derek.

“Quiet,” says Isaac. “We haven’t made any visual contact with hostiles yet. How is Hale and his team?”

“Annoying.”

“Stilinski’s still keeping them busy?”

“Are you kidding? Hale is ready to _adopt_ the damn kid.”

“He gets bored,” says Scott.

“You’d know?”

“We bonded.”

“You bonded.” Derek is not impressed.

“He’s a funny guy!” Scott protests. 

“Then you can take the rest of my shift. _You_ deal with him.” Derek turns off his comm and heads to the side hatch of the Elephant.

“Woah, where are you going?” asks Stilinski.

Derek ignores him and opens the door before dropping to the ground next to the still-moving vehicle. One of the Warthogs has stopped next to him and Derek doesn’t need to see Scott’s face to see the look of disapproval he’s getting.

“Not a word,” says Derek. Scott shakes his head and brushes past him to climb into the Elephant.

From the driver’s seat of the Warthog, Corporal Finstock yells, “Greenberg, watch your driving! If you kill a SPARTAN before we even reach the Covenant, I will make sure that you drive yourself into a pit of _lava_. I don’t know where I’m gonna find this pit of lava, but you’re driving yourself into it!”

Derek climbs into the passenger seat next to Finstock, taking the M90 CAWS shotgun from his back and resting it across his lap for quick access. Behind Derek and Finstock, Isaac is manning the turret. Laura is driving the other Warthog while a pale, blue-eyed private armed with an MA5B assault rifle sits next to her and Boyd mans the turret. Four members of Delta-03 are inside the Elephant to help guard Dr. Hale and his research team while the other four are on top of the tank-like Elephant. Private Mahealani stands at the turret and Erica has set up her System 99 Anti-Materiel sniper rifle at the front of the vehicle. Finstock steps on the gas to catch up with Laura’s Warthog.    

To decrease the risk of Covenant detection, they travel off-road. The terrain is rough with browned grasses and sparse pockets of craggy trees nestled among the rocky earth. In the distance, Derek can see forests of clustered coniferous and deciduous trees, dipping among the craters pockmarked across Reach’s surface that remain even after terraforming.

“Any sign of Covenant, Noble Eleven?” asks Laura over the comm system.

“Negative,” says Erica. “I’m surprised we haven’t made any visual contact yet. Quite frankly, I’m a bit disappointed.”

“I don’t mind,” says Isaac. “It’s like a vacation.”

“A vacation from imminent death,” Boyd agrees.

“Why would you be bothered by imminent death? You’re SPARTANs. Isn’t that part of the job description?” asks the marine next to Laura.

“Sure, if the SPARTAN Program was something you signed up for,” says Isaac coolly.

“SPARTANs get recruited,” says Boyd.

“Or kidnapped as children,” Isaac adds.

“So basically they take kids no one gives a shit about,” says the marine.

Derek’s grip tightens on his shotgun and he sucks in a deep, calming breath.

“Daehler, if you don’t shut your mouth, I cannot take responsibility for whatever happens to you.” Finstock pipes up. “Why don’t you trade spots with Bilinski? At least he’s only in danger of being killed for being annoying as hell instead of for being a jackass.”

“I was only curious,” Daehler complains as Laura stops the Warthog to let the marine off.

Finstock taps into the radio. “Bilinski, get your behind out here and take Daehler’s spot before he gets himself curb-stomped.”

“It’s _Stilinski_ ,” the familiar voice Derek has grown so tired of replies.

“At least Scott is the least likely to actually murder Daehler,” Derek mumbles.

“See? Now hurry it up, Stilinski,” Finstock barks.

Stilinski jumps from the Elephant moments later, passing Daehler on his way over to Laura’s Warthog and climbing in next to her. “Hey, Commander,” he greets.

“Weapon at the ready, Thirteen,” says Laura. “Just in case.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Stilinski hoists his battle rifle into his arms and lets it rest against his thighs. “So how’s the party out here? You’re all looking lively.”

“Boring,” says Erica. “I haven’t shot anything all morning yet.”

“How was Scott?” asks Isaac.

“Scott was awesome,” says Stilinski. “Scott is always awesome. We’re totally bros.”

“Thirteen, stop distracting Noble Team,” Derek finally says.

“What am I distracting you from?” asks Stilinski. “The lovely scenic view of Reach’s wilderness?”

“Cute.”

Stilinski scoffs, but he mercifully stays quiet for now. Derek figures it’s the closest he’ll ever get to a surrender.

They continue for the next hour before Erica says over the radio, “Stop: we’ve got hostiles about four hundred yards away at ten o’clock.”

The Elephant and the Warthogs immediately halt and Laura begins to snap out orders. “Noble Eleven: move two hundred yards closer and set up your rifle at three o’clock. Noble Twelve: cover Noble Eleven. Noble Nine and Ten: you two stay with the Elephant. Get on the roof and make sure the Covenant don’t destroy it. Noble Eight: you’re with me. We’re going to circle round and flank them from seven o’clock. Finstock, I want you and your five best from Delta-03 with me and Noble Eight. Greenberg: stay at the wheel in case you need to make a getaway, but don’t buckle in. If shit goes down, you’re going to have to help evacuate the vehicle. The other four, stay with the Elephant. Stilinski, how’s your aim?”

“Better than you think,” Stilinski replies.

“Then you’re with me. Everyone got that? Good. Get moving.”

While Finstock organizes his marines, Erica relays the precise location of the Covenant soldiers. As soon as they’re ready, Laura and Derek lead the way through the brush while Finstock and his five best shooters follow with Stilinski taking up the rear, battle rifle at the ready. The earth is hard and compact beneath Derek’s boots while the thick grasses catch around his shins. They’re partially crouched, though Laura is completely hunched over to compensate for her height.

After about ten minutes, Erica radios, “I’m in position; awaiting orders from you, Noble Seven.”

“Roger,” says Laura. They duck low as they start to descend over the lip of an ancient crater. The Covenant are nestled low in the crater in the ruins of an old outpost. When they’re about one hundred and fifty yards from the outpost, Laura stops them behind a cluster of trees. “Stilinski, put that scope to use and tell me what you see.”

Stilinski kneels down and leans around the side of a tree with his battle rifle, peering through the scope survey the hostiles. “I see three Elites,” he says. “One of them has an energy sword. Four Brutes. Six Jackals; they all have shields. There’s a shitload of Grunts scattered around. They have a Ghost.”

“Stilinski, I want you to move fifty meters ahead and wait for my mark. You’re going to be sharpshooting. The rest of you are with me,” says Laura.

Stilinski darts forward, staying low, and crouches behind a small outcrop of rocks. Then Laura leads the rest of the group around to nine o’clock, closing in until they’re fifty yards away.

“Noble Eleven,” Laura says over the comm, “take out the bastard with the energy sword; I want it.”

“You _always_ get the energy sword,” Isaac complains over the radio.  

“Seniority,” Laura quips.

“Roger,” says Erica. Moments later, there’s a loud bang and the Covenant come to life with noise.

“Fire at will, Stilinski,” Laura orders, and soon the short bursts of rifle fire can be heard. “Give ‘em hell, soldiers!” Laura charges out of hiding, assault rifle blazing. Erica’s aim is as true as always; the Elite with the energy sword is on the ground with a clean hole through its helmet leaking purple blood.

Derek charges toward one of the Brutes, firing his shotgun. The first shot hits the Brute in the gut, making it roar as it raises its Type-25 Carbine, shooting superheated metal projectiles toward Derek as the blades on either side of the barrel glint in the sun. The projectiles bounce off of the energy shield installed in the Mark V armor without slowing the SPARTAN down and he takes a second shot, this time hitting the Brute in the throat, spraying red, blue-flecked blood into the dirt as it collapses. Out of the corner of his eye, Derek catches sight of two Grunts heading toward him, one of them waving a plasma grenade in its hand. Before he can cock his shotgun, there’s a short burst of battle rifle gunfire and blue blood explodes from the head of the grenade-wielding Grunt. The grenade falls from the dead Grunt’s hand and its fellow curses as it runs, but it’s not fast enough to escape the blast as the grenade explodes in an eruption of blue-white light, severing the leg off of the fleeing Grunt and immediately cauterizing the stump. The Grunt screams in pain and Derek shoots it, cutting off the noise.

A low pulsing sound starts up and Derek turns to see that one of the Elites has begun piloting the Ghost, a low hovering craft of a purple alloy with a bulbous body and sharp protrusions on either side of the plasma turrets not unlike a hammerhead shark. By now, Laura has collected the energy sword and is slashing at the third Elite while Finstock and one of his marines are teaming up against a second Brute. The third Brute lays dead and as Derek watches, the fourth goes down after several three-round fires. Derek runs toward the Ghost and the Elite catches sight of him, propelling the vehicle forward. At the last second, Derek jumps and catches the lip of the hood, holding himself onto the craft as he swings his shotgun around to lodge it beneath the Elite’s chin and fire. When the corpse falls, Derek swings himself around to sit in the driver’s seat, keeping the Ghost aloft.

“Nice catch, Noble Eight,” Laura says over the comm.

He smirks to himself smugly.

“Heads up!” shouts Erica. “Enemy drop-ship: incoming!”

“Noble Eleven, I want you and Stilinski to keep your guns on the drop ship! Take it out if you can. If you can’t, take out the turrets and as many Covenant as you can!” Laura orders. “Noble Eight, I want you to help them. Aim your turrets at the drop-ship!”

Derek brings the Ghost around as he looks up, soon making visual contact with the Covenant drop-ship. Plasma-fire begins to barrage him and he accelerates the vehicle to evade the shots. He can hear the loud crack of Erica’s sniper and the threefold shudders of Stilinski’s battle rifle as they shoot at the drop-ship. Derek turns the Ghost to face the ship again and fires his own turrets at the bulkhead. It shudders beneath the multiple impacts, but Grunt and Jackal reinforcements are still reaching the ground to join the fight.

There’s a crackle of blue electricity from the drop-ship and Derek immediately adjusts his aim for the weakness. Erica and Stilinski catch on moments later, all concentrating their fire at the same area until finally, the drop ship is engulfed in magnesium-bright flames, collapsing to the ground and crushing a good deal of its passengers. Laura and the marines converge on the survivors and Derek hurries in with the Ghost. Stilinski and Erica pick them off from a distance, working cleanly and efficiently. The battle is over within half an hour since it began.

“Good work, everyone. Now give me a headcount,” says Laura.

“We lost one of Delta-03, but the rest of us are kicking just fine, ma’am,” says Finstock.

“Still here,” says Erica.

“Scott owes me ten dollars,” Stilinski pipes up.

“Let’s hurry and meet up with the Elephant. The Covenant could send more soldiers after us at any moment.” Laura holsters her stolen energy sword and begins heading back out of the crater. Finstock and the four remaining marines follow while Derek drives the Ghost. Stilinski joins up with them partway up the hill.

“Nice ride, Leonidas,” he says.

Derek ignores him. They meet Erica at the top of the crater. Her rifle has been strapped to her back once more and she bounces slightly on the balls of her feet, quite pleased with herself.

“Good shooting,” says Derek.

“Thanks. Want to let me have a ride?” asks Erica.

“Don’t be ridiculous. There’s only room for one on this thing.”

“I wasn’t talking about the Ghost.”

Stilinski snickers and Derek rams into him with the Ghost. The marine squawks with pain and surprise. Derek grins to himself.

 

 

**Private First Class Stilinski**

It doesn’t take long to meet up with the Elephant again, and when they do, Scott is waiting in front of the large vehicle with his arms crossed.

“I can’t believe I missed out on all the fun,” Scott complains.

“Trust me, it wasn’t that eventful,” says Stiles. “The commander is disgustingly efficient.”

“Thank you, Stiles,” says Laura as she walks past him to climb into the driver’s seat of a Warthog. “You’re in shotgun. Mahealani, you’re with Finstock. Noble Ten, it’s your turn to stay with Hale’s team. Noble Nine, you take over the turret.”

Stiles hoists himself into the seat next to Laura and watches as Isaac jumps down from the top of the Elephant to go inside and Erica climbs back up with her sniper rifle. Scott gives Stiles a thumbs up as he goes over to Finstock’s Warthog and stands in the back with the turret.

“Hey, Danny,” Stiles calls as Private Mahealani heads over to Finstock’s Warthog.

“Hey, Stiles,” says Danny with a slightly confused look. While Stiles and Danny grew up together, they weren’t exactly in the same clique. Danny was popular and attractive with dark eyes and hair and olive-toned skin. Stiles was pale and awkward and diagnosed with ADHD at the age of six. Danny, with his broad shoulders and wiry build, was good at athletics. Stiles, with his eclectic interests and short attention span, was good at research and making quick logical leaps.

“Let’s move out!” Laura shouts, and their military caravan stutters into motion with Leonidas leading in the Ghost.       

“So how did the skirmish go?” asks Scott only minutes into the journey.

“Laura had me sharpshooting from a hundred yards away with my battle rifle,” Stiles replies. “We lost Private Taylor, but no one else suffered any injuries worth mentioning. Erica, Leonidas, and I took out a Covenant drop-ship.”

“Dude, that’s wicked!” Scott says.

“How was Peter?” asks Stiles.

“Dr. Hale?” From the tone of Scott’s voice, Stiles gets the feeling that he’s making a face behind his helmet.  

“What’s that attitude for?”

“He kind of gets on my nerves.”

“I’m pretty sure his single goal in life is to get on everyone’s nerves,” Stiles points out. “I can appreciate it.”

“I can see why Noble Eight wanted to get out of there so fast.”

“You wouldn’t have left me would you, Scott?”

“Laura would have had to drag me out by my feet.”

“Aw yeah. Laura, drive the Warthog closer to Finstock’s like we’re trying to mount it so that I can fist-bump my SPARTAN brother.”

“Stilinski, if you try to mount anything of mine, I will shoot you until you literally breathe gunpowder,” says Finstock.

“Actually, Corporal, there wouldn’t really be any gunpowder on the bullet,” Stiles corrects. “It all combusts in the chamber when you fire the gun; that’s what propels it. But A for the effort.”

“ _Shut the hell up, Stilinski!_ ”

It takes another hour and a half for the convoy to reach Manassas. They don’t encounter any more Covenant on the way, but Stiles has a sinking feeling that they’re just biding their time. Manassas is one of the three largest cities on Reach, and every time Stiles sees it, it leaves him a little breathless in more ways than one. Around fifteen years before Stiles was born, Manassas was the target of a suicide terrorist strike that killed two million people and left the region uninhabitable for years due to radiation. It’s hard to believe that this city, now a bustling metropolis, was not so long ago a nuclear wasteland. It’s a testament to the sheer power of human determination and mankind’s ability to adapt and move on in the wake of disaster, like new greens pushing through the ashes after a forest fire. Ever since Stiles learned of Manassas’s past, he’s always thought that it would have been more appropriate to name the city Phoenix; not after the city on Earth, but for its own accomplishments.

But now, as their procession reaches Manassas, Stiles can see a little of that post-apocalyptic wasteland that was left behind after the terrorist attack. All of the city’s structures are still standing tall, but a large percentage of the population has evacuated the city in response to the Covenant presence. The heavy scent of exhaust fumes are weaker than Stiles has ever smelled them here, and though there are still more people in Manassas than the entire population of New Alexandria, it still has an almost barren feel to it—perhaps because Stiles knows what’s waiting past the cloud cover and outside the atmosphere, has faced it and fought it with a gun shuddering in his hands, the gentle recoil nudging his shoulder insistently like an anxious friend whispering, ‘ _Look_.’ And Stiles has looked and he’s _seen_ ; read the report and seen just how desperate the situation on Reach is. But his pulse still throbs beneath his skin and there’s still air in his lungs, and that’s enough to tell him not to give up.

Stiles thinks all of this as they draw closer to the Manassas Spaceport, but instead he turns to Scott and says, “Did you know that people have been using the word ‘apocalypse’ in the wrong context for centuries?”

“Really?” asks Scott.

“Yeah. It’s colloquially used in reference to the end of the world, but it actually comes from the Greek ‘ _apocalypsis_ ’, which literally translates to ‘a disclosure of knowledge’ or ‘an unrevealing’,” says Stiles.

“Then why do people use it for ‘the end of the world’?”

“Biblically, there was supposed to be this grand revelation; given by an angel or even by God himself through the second coming of Jesus Christ—the details are shaky. Unreliable narration is one of the many follies of man. Anyway, this revelation was going to be really intense; it would change our entire world view. So following that line of thought, you could say that the apocalypse doesn’t mean the end of the world…”

“But the end of the world _as you know it_ ,” says Leonidas.

Stiles stares at Leonidas with dumb shock. “That’s exactly right.”

“Let’s save the language lesson for later; we’re here.” Leonidas pulls ahead with the Ghost and Stiles blinks as he looks ahead of the Warthog. Sure enough, the immense Manassas Spaceport is towering over them like a manmade mountain. Laura and Finstock park the Warthogs and Stiles jumps down from the passenger seat, stretching his legs as he walks over to Scott. Greenberg slowly guides the Elephant by the loading bay and brings it to a stop. As soon as it’s still, Erica and the five marines on top of the Elephant climb down, and shortly after, the hatch opens and Boyd emerges from inside the transport vehicle with the other four members of Delta-03 and Peter Hale’s research team.

“Hello, Stiles,” says Peter as he saunters over. “I heard you got to see some action today.”

“Sort of,” Stiles says. “I was just sharp-shooting the whole time.”

“I am sure your efforts still proved to be valuable.” Peter turns to Scott with a smirk. “Ah, the White Knight. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Scott cringes a little. “Yeah, for you, maybe.”

“Cheer up, Noble Nine. Stiles likes me.”

Scott turns to look at Stiles, who just gives him an apologetic grin. “Sorry, bro, but Pete’s cool in my books.”

“Traitor,” Scott mutters.

Laura walks over to them purposefully, stopping in front of Peter. “Dr. Hale, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Commander Laura.”

Peter’s eyes glint with fascination as he looks up at Laura’s visor and shakes her large hand. “And the same to you. A SPARTAN-II, I take it?”

“Yes,” says Laura. “Is your team ready to go?”

“Absolutely.” Peter winks at Stiles and Scott. “Better go play Mother Goose.” He walks over to the group of scientists standing awkwardly among the marines. When everyone is organized, Laura and Finstock lead the way into the spaceport. Civilians’ heads turn to stare openly at the group, the SPARTANs in particular, as they make their way toward the front desk. To Stiles’ amusement, the inside of the spaceport is a lot like a commercial airport. When they reach the front desk, Finstock hands a stack of papers to the woman seated there.

“These are off-world passes for Dr. Hale and his research team. I am sure that you can understand why the UNSC wants to ensure their safety,” says Laura.

“Of course,” says the woman. “Then it is safe to assume that we are following the Cole Protocol?”

“Yes, ma’am,” says Laura.

The woman skim-reads one of the papers, pursing her red-stained lips. “Alright. If Dr. Hale and his team could follow me—”

“Actually, I’m not going,” Peter interrupts.

“Excuse me?” Laura turns to Peter incredulously.

Peter shrugs, not looking sorry at all. “My team is free to go, but I would much rather put my work to use here on Reach than run away—no offense.”

“So much for that,” Erica mumbles.

“Fine,” says Laura. She turns to the woman at the desk, “My apologies, ma’am. I suppose we will have to take Dr. Hale off of the list of passengers. As for the rest of the team, they will require a ship with camouflage cloaking, and—”

“Do you have any Sabre starfighters?” Stiles interrupts.

“I beg your pardon?” says the woman.

“Yeah, don’t bullshit me. The YSS-1000 Sabre-class starfighters are practically legendary after Operation: UPPERCUT a couple days ago. So did you or did you not snag a Sabre from Farkas Lake?” Stiles crosses his arms.

The woman glances around and lowers her voice. “We have _one_.”

“Good, because all the cloaking in the world won’t stop the Covenant from realizing that a ship is leaving Reach’s atmosphere and gunning it down on the spot.” Stiles turns to Laura. “We need a decoy.”

Laura fumes silently for a moment. “And who do you presume will be our decoy? Who can fly one of those things?”

“I’ll do it,” says Stiles.

“You can pilot?” Laura says flatly.

“Yes.”

“You can pilot a _Sabre?_ ”

“I have connections. Would you rather report back to my father that Hale’s team was blown up the second they got into orbit?”

Laura turns back to the woman, snapping, “Fine. Ready a Sabre on the launch pad and we’ll meet you there. Hale, you’re with us.”

Each member of Peter’s team shakes his hand before going to the launch terminal to board their ship. In the meantime, a middle-aged man comes over to speak to the woman behind the desk and turns to Laura.

“Commander, my name is Chris Argent. I’ve been told to lead you and your team to the launch pad.” The man gives Laura a tight-lipped smile. He has short sandy hair and blue eyes, and his face is dotted with stubble.

“Argent? Aren’t you an Orbital Drop Shock Trooper?” asks Finstock.

“Retired,” says Chris. “If you would follow me?”

As Argent leads the way, Laura lets herself fall back to walk side by side with Stiles. She leans down and hisses, “What the hell was that?”

“What the hell was what?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Stilinski. You made me look like an idiot back there.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Stiles says sarcastically. “Would you rather I waited until _after_ the civilian ship was obliterated by the Covenant to say, ‘Hmmm, perhaps it would be a good idea to use a decoy?’”

“If you fuck up, Stiles, I will have your head,” says Laura. “Because if you get people killed or get _yourself_ killed, your father will have _my_ head.”

“Have a little faith in me.”

Out on the landing platform, the UNSC ship, _Nyx_ , waits about fifty yards down the concrete strip. Directly in front of the port Chris Argent led them out of is the YSS-1000 Sabre. The starfighter is vaguely Y-shaped with a sleek elongated cockpit extending beyond the two wings on either side of it. Set into the wings are high-power thrusters for maneuvering and on the back of the craft are scream jets for takeoff. The pilot seat is directly behind the nose, and behind that is a seat for the gunner. The Sabre is armed with twin M1024 30mm autocannons and twin-linked ST/Medusa missile pods. The craft is painted grey with red accents, and ‘ _UNSC_ ’ is painted in white on both wings. It spans 24.6 meters in length and 18.9 meters in width. All in all, it’s elegant in its simplicity.  

Peter lets out a low whistle. “That is _nice_.”

“Stilinski needs a gunner,” says Laura. “Noble Eight?”

“I’ll do it,” says Leonidas.

“Thank you,” says Laura.

Laura and Argent help Stiles and Leonidas get situated in the Sabre. Stiles examines the dashboard as soon as he’s seated, familiarizing himself with the controls. While Argent shows Leonidas the weapons system, Scott wanders over and hops onto the wing of the Sabre to get closer, taking off his helmet.

“So how does it look?” asks Scott.

“FYI, this isn’t the first time I’ve piloted a Sabre,” says Stiles. “Why does everyone assume that? I mean, _hello?_ My dad is a fucking Major. I have mucho connections here.”

“It’s probably because you look twelve,” Scott says with a grin.

Stiles pauses in fiddling with the controls to leer at Scott. “I bet you waited all day for the opportunity to make that one.”

Scott shrugs. “Maybe. But for real: be careful, Stiles.”

“Dude, I’m going to fly fucking circles around the Covenant, and then I’m going to fly my ass back down here so that you can throw yourself prostrate before me and kiss it.”

Scott holds out his hand. “Good luck, man.”

“Yeah you too, buddy.” Stiles clasps Scott’s hand and gives it a squeeze before the SPARTAN jumps down from the wing of the aircraft.

When Argent finishes briefing Leonidas, he comes over to Stiles and hands him a headset. “I’ll be your connection on Reach. If anything goes wrong, you radio me and I’ll do what I can.”

Stiles nods and removes his helmet, placing it beneath his seat as he pulls the headset over his ears. “Yes, sir.”

Argent pats Stiles’ shoulder and hops from the Sabre. The hatch closes and Stiles watches as the rest of Noble Team B and Delta-03 stand back. Peter Hale stands next to Laura with his trademark mischievous grin.

“Don’t die, Stilinski!” Finstock shouts.

Stiles turns his head to try to see Leonidas. “Last chance to bail.”

“Not likely,” Leonidas replies.

With an eager grin, Stiles hits the ignition and the Sabre comes to life. On the other side of the launch platform, _Nyx_ is beginning her ascent with Peter’s research team to bring them to safety. Stiles begins to drive the Sabre into launching position. He glances out the window and smiles as he sees the soldiers saluting. He returns the gesture before turning to the front again, muttering under his breath as he begins switching on the thrusters.

“All systems are go,” Stiles says into the headset. “Echo 6 is ready for launch.”

Chris Argent’s voice crackles over the radio. “You’re all clear. Launching in ten… nine… eight… seven… six… five… four… three… two… one.”

The rocket engines roar as the fuel rapidly combusts, propelling the Sabre thousands of feet into the sky. Stiles whoops with exhilaration. As they ascend higher and higher, the craft begins to shake with the force of turbulence. In short minutes, the Sabre is breaking through the cloud cover and sunlight fills the cockpit. The view of the rolling sea of clouds below takes Stiles’ breath away.

“Isn’t this amazing?” he asks.

Leonidas doesn’t reply and Stiles assumes that he’s just in silent awe.

The Sabre slows down as it hits the atmosphere, pushing hard to break through. Stiles grips the steering wheel tightly to guide it on course.

“ _Nyx_ has made it into orbit,” Argent says over the radio. “How are you doing?”

“We’ve almost made it through the atmosphere,” says Stiles. “We’re on the final stretch.”

“Glad to hear it. Let me know once you’ve made it.”

Stiles licks his lips, murmuring, “ _Come on…_ ” under his breath. The booster rockets separate from the Sabre, falling away. Just a little further… and then they’re through, the friction suddenly dissipating. “And we’re in orbit,” Stiles says. He glances down at the radar. “Three Covenant fighters are on the way though. How far away does _Nyx_ need to be before they can go into slipspace?”

“Give it a few kilometers,” says Argent. “Can you handle the Covenant for that long?”

“Yeah, that should be fine,” says Stiles. He peers out the cockpit window at Reach. Massive, craterous seas are dotted among the immense landmasses, colouring the planet green, brown, and blue. Stiles can’t help but smile; this is his home. It looks peaceful from space, untouched by the taint of the Covenant, like a sleeping giant. In the distance, Stiles can see Reach’s two moons, Csodaszarvas and Turul. Stiles’ eyes flicker down at the radar again. “Visual contact in approximately thirty seconds. Prepare to engage. As soon as the Covenant are in sight, start firing. Remember: we _want_ their attention on us.”

“I know,” says Leonidas, and Stiles hears the SPARTAN flip the weapons system online. Soon enough, the Covenant ships appear. The Seraph-class starfighters are flat, purple crafts shaped like tadpoles with a stubby, two-pronged tail. Bright lights dot the hull and plasma exhaust spews out from between the two prongs of the tail as the Seraphs approach. Stiles steadies the Sabre to face the Seraphs head-on.

“Use the cannons to take out the Seraphs’ energy shields, then follow up with the missiles,” Stiles instructs.

“Got it.”

Stiles faces the central Seraph as Leonidas begins firing the cannons. The bracketing Seraphs dip to the side while the central fighter moves up to evade the shots. Stiles chases after it as Leonidas keeps shooting. Electricity crackles over the ship as the rounds make contact with the shield. A bolt of plasma sails toward the Sabre and Stiles jerks the craft hard into a barrel roll. The hair on the back of Stiles’ neck prickles and he turns the Sabre toward the third Seraph.

“Now! The missiles!” Stiles shouts.

Leonidas follows Stiles’ orders without question, firing three missiles as the Seraph begins to fire, leaving the fighter momentarily vulnerable as the shield goes down to allow the plasma bolt through. Stiles pulls the Sabre up into a half loop before turning the craft right-side up in an Immelmann turn. Behind them, there’s a burst of bright light as the Seraph explodes.

“Left!” Leonidas suddenly yells, and Stiles rolls the Sabre as a streak of plasma passes them. Biting his lip, Stiles glances down at the radar again.

“Shit. Two more Seraphs are on the way.”

“We can handle them,” says Leonidas.

Stiles bites his lip and nods, bearing down on the Seraph in front of them while dodging the shots from the other ship. Leonidas wears away at the energy shield with the cannons while Stiles tries to keep them on target as much as possible. When the shield finally breaks down, Leonidas fires the missiles again. The Seraph spins 360 degrees on a longitudinal axis, evading one of the missiles. The second missile hits the tail of the Seraph, destroying one of the prongs and sending it off course. Leonidas quickly shoots two more missiles at the starfighter and it erupts in a hail of white plasma.

The Sabre jolts as a plasma cannon hits one of the wings.

“We lost a missile pod!” Leonidas cries.

“Shit.” Stiles turns the Sabre to see that the reinforcements have arrived. “Hold on tight, Leonidas.” Stiles presses down on the thrusters, driving them right toward the two approaching Seraphs. As they begin to fire, he sends the Sabre into a series of aileron rolls while Leonidas fires round after round of cannons. Just before they collide, Stiles holds the Sabre on its side, slipping between the Seraphs before he flips the craft around to shoot at them from behind. The third Seraph gives them chase and Stiles propels the Sabre toward the two new Seraphs, dodging shots and letting the friendly fire aid Leonidas in wearing down the Seraphs’ energy shields. They manage to destroy one of them before the second flips around to fire at the Sabre. Stiles keeps the craft on a collision course with the Seraph, tilting and twirling the Sabre about its axis to avoid plasma fire as Leonidas shoots the cannons at it. At the last second, Stiles skims past the side of the Seraph. As he spins the Sabre to face the Seraphs again, a pulse laser crashes into the damaged wing of the Sabre, throwing off the vehicle’s balance. While the Sabre is compromised, another plasma cannon hits the hull. An alarm begins to sound.

“What is that?” Leonidas asks.

Stiles doesn’t let himself think about it. He bites his lip almost hard enough to break the skin as he forces the Sabre under his control again. Leonidas manages to destroy another Seraph, and now they’re down to one-on-one. The Seraph is fast and its pilot is skilled. The Sabre and the Covenant craft dance around each other as they fire at each other over and over.

“Stilinski, quick! Flip and get behind it!” Leonidas barks.

Stiles executes a split s maneuver and Leonidas manages to break through the energy shield, finishing it off with a few more cannon shots. Stiles slumps back in his seat, panting for breath as the afterimage of the burning plasma fades from his vision. A red light is flashing inside of the Sabre and Stiles can feel a drop of sweat sliding down his neck. He swallows hard and flips on the communications.

“Stilinski to Argent. Stilinski to Argent. Do you read me?”

“Loud and clear, Stilinski. How’s it going?” asks Argent.

“Is _Nyx_ clear yet?” he asks wearily.

“She’s just gone into slipspace now.”

Stiles sighs with relief. “Good. There will be more Seraphs on the way any minute.”

“Then you’d better get back quickly,” says Argent. The radio goes silent. Stiles begins taking deep breaths.

“Stilinski?” says Leonidas. His voice sounds far away. Stiles’ chest feels tight, like a hand is gripping him from the inside. Alarms like the one that rang out when the Sabre was hit scream in Stiles’ ears. He feels too warm and there’s not enough air. It’s stuffy and claustrophobic, and Stiles is trapped in the tiny pilot seat of this cockpit. He sucks in gasping breaths, hyperventilating now. “Stiles!”

Leonidas grabs Stiles’ arm, pulling him around so that they’re face to face. Stiles’ vision is blurry, but he thinks the visor of the SPARTAN’s helmet is depolarized. Strong hands grip his biceps.

“Stiles, breathe with me! You need to get a hold of yourself!” Leonidas yells.

“The ship’s integrity has been compromised,” Stiles chokes out. “We’re going to hit the atmosphere and fucking _burn._ ” Black speckles appear before his vision as he struggles to breathe.

“Stiles, snap out of it! _Stiles!_ ”

Pain flares across Stiles’ cheek as Leonidas slaps him. He blinks rapidly, eyes focusing on the SPARTAN’s face, and _oh god_ , Stiles can see his _face_. Leonidas has short dark hair and stubble like he hasn’t shaved in a week and a straight nose. His thick eyebrows are drawn together in a frown and the gold tint of the helmet’s visor prevents Stiles from discerning his eye-colour, but he can tell that they’re light. Leonidas’s strong jaw is clenched and even in his desperation, he’s devastatingly handsome.

Leonidas squeezes Stiles’ arms. “Are you with me now?”

Stiles suddenly realizes that he’s breathing. “Uh, yeah.” He clears his throat. “Yes. Okay.”

“How long do we have?”

Stiles licks his lips, eyes darting as he makes calculations in his head. “The Sabre will definitely burn in the atmosphere. We may make it through, but not without taking some heavy damage.”

“How’s the energy shield on your armor?” asks Leonidas.

“Decent, but not as good as yours.”

“Put it up to maximum capacity on re-entry and keep it. We’re going to have to jump.”

“What.” Stiles’ voice comes out inflectionless in his disbelief.

“I said: we are going to have to jump.” Leonidas articulates very slowly. “Ever wanted to be an Orbital Drop Shock Trooper?”

“No, and ODSTs have way better armor and single occupant exoatmospheric insertion vehicles. _We can’t jump!_ ” Stiles flails. “And there’s this thing I need to do? Breathing, it’s called. My helmet doesn’t cover my entire face!”

Leonidas lets go of Stiles and digs through the compartments of the Sabre. “Found a helmet.” He throws it at Stiles. “Vacuum-rated too.”

Stiles stares at the helmet and throws off his headset before pulling it over his head. “This is fucking madness.”

“Better to fall to your death than burn to death,” says Leonidas. “We’ll jump together. My armor can take a lot more damage than yours.”

Stiles takes a few deep breaths and finally turns in his seat to face the front again. “Ohhh _fuck_ , oh fuck, oh fuck…” He turns the Sabre back toward Reach and presses down on the thrusters, still cursing under his breath as they get closer to the planet. Beneath his gloves, his knuckles turn white as he grips the wheel hard when he starts to feel the first jolts of the atmosphere fifteen minutes later. He keeps the Sabre as steady as possible when the pressure increases, roaring in their ears. The farther they go, the more deafening the sound becomes, and then the cockpit begins to feel hot. “Oh god, we’re on fire, aren’t we?”

“Just focus on piloting,” says Leonidas.

“Oh _shit_ , oh fuck.”

Soon, Stiles can smell burning plastic and he’s sweating in his armor, even as the heat dries the drops on his skin. They break through the atmosphere, but the sound of the flames engulfing the Sabre is still thundering so loudly that Leonidas has to shout to be heard.

“Make sure to steer the Sabre outside the city!”

“I know! I’m not stupid!” Stiles hollers back. He guides the Sabre toward the vast no man’s land east of Manassas, grinding his teeth together as the heat in the cockpit becomes searing. “I don’t think we can stay in here much longer! The ship is going to fall apart!” Stiles locks the navigation setting and unbuckles himself from his seat, climbing over the side to join Leonidas behind the gunner’s chair. Leonidas reaches up for the hatch.

“Grab onto my waist!” he yells.

“Wait!” Stiles rushes over to the compartments, searching frantically for something—anything. Finding nothing, he searches along the sides of the gunner’s seat and the pilot’s. His hands find a piece of tarp. “Yes!”

“What good will that do?” Leonidas asks.

“Even just a few square meters of tarp will provide enough drag-force to slow our descent. It could mean the difference between living or dying.” Stiles thrusts the tarp into Leonidas’s hands and the SPARTAN opens it up, gripping two edges tightly and putting a hand on the hatch through the material. Stiles wraps his arms tightly around Leonidas’s neck, tucking his face in his shoulder.

“Hey, Stiles?”

“Yeah, buddy?”

“My name is Derek.”

Before Stiles can respond, Derek throws open the hatch and the change in air pressure yanks them out of the burning Sabre. Stiles screams, wrapping his legs around the SPARTAN’s waist and clinging for dear life. Derek holds on tightly to the tarp and it feels fucking useless because they’re still falling so fast and Stiles’ heart is practically humming, it’s beating so fast. He watches the Sabre plummeting just below them and barely feels any relief as its trajectory leads it out from beneath him and Derek.

“We’re gonna die! You’re gonna die and then Laura’s going to kill me! I’m gonna die a virgin and Laura’s going to follow me into the afterlife to kill me again for getting you killed!”

“Shut up,” Derek says.

Stiles tightens his grip, breaths coming too quickly. “I wish this fall wasn’t so long. All it does is give me time to freak out.”

“The fact that it’s taking so long to fall is a good thing. It means we aren’t falling as fast.”

“Or it just means that we’re really fucking high up!”

“Will you just trust me for once in your life?!”

Stiles jerks back a little to stare incredulously at Derek, who’s glaring at him through his still-depolarized helmet. “Excuse me, but I think jumping out of a fucking starfighter with you is a pretty good indication of trust!”

“You’re getting on my nerves!”

“I’m falling to my death! What are you expecting, a conversation about the weather?!”

“No! I’m expecting you to fall to your death quietly!”

“You are such a massive asshole! Like holy shit! Aren’t high-stress situations supposed to bring people together?”

“Not when one of them is as annoying as you!”

Stiles can’t help but grin and Derek smirks back.

“You know what’s not fair?” Stiles asks.

“What?”

“That you have this beautiful fucking face, but your personality sucks ass! I swear it’s like a universal law: he who has gorgeous face, massive douchelord will he be!”

“You know what’s even more unfair?” Derek asks.

“What?”

“That I might die with the most obnoxious human being in the entire galaxy!”

Stiles laughs and Derek shifts so that he’s partially hunched over with the tarp above Stiles’ head and Reach’s surface beneath his back.

“Unhook your legs from my waist!” Derek yells.

“Why?” But Stiles is doing it anyway.

“Because we’re about to—”

There’s an impossibly hard impact and Stiles barely has time to register the pain before everything goes black.

 

 

**Major Stilinski**

Noble Eight rises to his feet and salutes when Stilinski enters the infirmary. Stilinski returns the gesture and nods tiredly.

“At ease, soldier,” he says. He glances at the figure in the bed. Stiles suffered a major concussion and two cracked ribs. He had a scalp wound that was stitched and the bandage now stands out white against his forehead. But he’s alive, and Stilinski couldn’t be more grateful. “I’d like to have a word with you outside.”

Noble Eight removes his helmet as they step out of the infirmary and Stilinski examines his face. The young man has handsome features, but he looks exhausted.

“I wanted to thank you,” says Stilinski. “If it weren’t for you, my son wouldn’t be laying in that bed right now, but in a coffin. That means everything to me.”

“I did what any soldier would have done in my situation,” the SPARTAN says.

“Regardless, you have my deepest gratitude.” Stilinski extends his hand and Noble Eight reluctantly shakes it.

“Your son is an exceptional pilot,” Noble Eight admits. “Why did he join the marine corps? He would be a valuable asset to the air force.”

“Because if he was in the air force, Stiles would just train himself to use every ground weapon, and then how to drive every vehicle. That’s just how he is.”

The corner of Noble Eight’s mouth hints at a smirk, but he holds it back. “I see.”

“When’s the last time you got any sleep?” asks Stilinski.

“Before the mission,” says Noble Eight.

Stilinski grimaces. “Go get some rest. I’d order you if I thought I had to, but you look ready to drop all on your own.”

“Thank you, Major.”

Stilinski watches the SPARTAN head down the hall before he goes back inside the infirmary, taking Noble Eight’s seat next to Stiles’ bed. He takes his son’s hand and smiles fondly as those familiar brown eyes, so much like his mother’s, open and begin to blink at him blearily.

“Dad?” Stiles’ voice cracks, likely abused from screaming while in free fall.

“Hey, kiddo.” He gives Stiles’ hand a gentle squeeze. “You made it.”

“How long have I been out?” His words slur together a little.

“It’s been about twelve hours,” says Stilinski. “You suffered a pretty nasty concussion and your ribs will be tender for a couple weeks, but you haven’t been alone for a minute since you got here. Noble Team has been taking turns keeping watch over you.”

“Noble…”

“I just relieved Noble Eight so that he could get some sleep; he’s just fine.”

“Okay.” Stiles lets out a sigh.

“You saved a lot of lives today, Stiles. I’m really proud of you.”

Stiles hums in acknowledgement.

“Your mother would be really proud of you.”

Stiles’ breath catches and he opens his eyes, meeting Stilinski’s. His eyes are wet.

Stilinski smiles and leans down to kiss his son’s forehead. “You were very brave.”

“I should check on Derek.”

“No way. You’re not checking on anyone tonight,” Stilinski says firmly. He presses the call button next to Stiles’ bed. “Dr. Deaton will be here to see you shortly.”

“ _Dad…_ ”

“No ‘but’s about it. Noble Eight is getting rest and you need yours too.”

“I’ve been resting for twelve hours.”

“And now you can rest for more.”

Stiles sighs with drowsy exasperation, but he says, “I love you, Dad.”

And Stilinski brushes his son’s hair back from his forehead as he says, “I love you too.”      


	3. Ghosts of Onyx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and thank you to all of my supporters! I apologize that this chapter is so short in comparison to the others, but it's a transition into the next chapter which, unless I break it into parts, is going to be ridiculously long as it takes place over the course of several days. 
> 
> I definitely don't take the credit for the title of this chapter; it's the name of the novel by Eric Nylund that details the SPARTAN-III Program (fantastic read, by the way. It's best read after The Fall of Reach, which is also by Eric Nylund). 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you guys like Lydia and exposition!

**Private First Class Stilinski**

The first thing Stiles sees when he wakes the second time is strawberry blonde hair. He smiles, humming to himself.

“Am I in heaven?” he asks. He yelps as he’s hit in the arm.

“That’s for nearly breaking several clauses of our contract,” says the beautiful Lydia Martin, green eyes glaring down at him.   

“Okay for one thing, I’m still baffled that you made up an entire contract for our friendship in the first place,” says Stiles. “Second of all, there are so many clauses that I can’t remember half of them on a good day and right now I’m concussed.”

Lydia crosses one stocking-clad leg over the other, four inch heels narrowing to a dangerous point. “Stiles, do you know what day it is?”

“The seventeenth?”

“I meant the day of the week.”

“Uhh… Thursday?”

A perfectly manicured hand comes down to swat Stiles’ arm again, making him flinch back. “It’s our lunch date, Stiles!”

“No one’s stopping you from bringing your lunch in here!” Stiles gestures wildly around the infirmary.

“We’re going to my office,” Lydia says stubbornly.

“Deaton is going to kill you. Softly. With very kind words and a civil smile on his face.”

Lydia gives Stiles a terrifying tight-lipped smile. “He could _try._ ”

“You know, I’d rather just stay in bed here.”

“Funny. Get up.”

“Do you want _me_ to die?!”

“I want you to get up and have lunch with me in my office like we do every Thursday.”

“At the expense of my life?”

Lydia shrugs, brows raised above her closed eyes as she shakes her head. “You win some and you lose some.”

“You are the worst best friend ever.”

“You couldn’t live without me.”

Stiles curses under his breath and sits up because he knows she’s right. Pain lances through Stiles’ ribs and he purses his lips as he exhales heavily. Lydia stands up and crosses her arms, waiting impatiently for Stiles to finally muster the strength to stand. His head is spinning. Lydia loops her arm through Stiles’ to steady him, and when he finally nods at her, squinting a little against the throbbing in his skull, she begins to slowly lead him from the infirmary and down the hall to one of the elevators.

“You’re lucky I’m not making you take the stairs,” says Lydia. “But I don’t want to risk breaking my heels.”

Stiles leans against the metallic wall and smiles slightly, letting his eyes fall closed. “Whatever you say, Lydia.”

She straightens her back and raises her chin, adopting a perfect posture. The doors open once on the way up and two men enter, looking over Lydia’s dark pencil-skirt and loose blouse with appreciation. Lydia clears her throat quietly and Stiles automatically tightens his arm around Lydia’s, giving the men a stiff smile.

When the men exit the elevator two floors up, Stiles murmurs, “Accessorizing me again, I see.”

“You make a lovely accessory as long as you keep your mouth closed and don’t do anything stupid,” Lydia says.

“You know, you have this special talent for complimenting and insulting me in the same breath. It’s really quite remarkable.”

Lydia’s office is on the top floor of the ONI facility. Inside, the office appears pristine and professional. The shelf unit is filled with texts on math and physics and Lydia’s white-painted desk has only a neat stack of file folders on it and two personal items: a phalaenopsis orchid with large, white, moth-like petals and a framed picture of a handsome young man with blue eyes and blond hair. The quirk to the young man’s lips is cocky, but his eyes betray deeper emotion to the photographer. The photo made its first appearance several months ago and hasn’t left since. Stiles also knows that beneath Lydia’s blouse, a pair of dog tags rest against her breastbone with the engraving, ‘ _Jackson-B291 D.O.B. 15/06/2530 SPARTAN-III Beta Company UNSC_ ’. Stiles knows because when Lydia first received the dog tags, in her rage, she threw them from her window as hard as she could and he went out that night to find them for her. The next morning he brought the tags to her office and gently hung them around her neck. Lydia had stood tall with her chin raised as tears trickled down her cheeks. She cried silently, like the soldier she loved, and gripped Stiles’ hand like a vise.

Jackson and Stiles had not gotten along. Jackson didn’t like that Stiles had been in love with Lydia for most of his life and Stiles didn’t like that Jackson was a narcissist. But before the end of Jackson’s term on Reach, they had tolerated each other; Jackson because of Lydia, and Stiles because despite how much of an asshole Jackson could be, he could tell that the man truly loved Lydia, and that she loved him. From an outside eye, their relationship would have looked toxic. Lydia was constantly pushing Jackson to be better and the SPARTAN had acted callous toward her, but Stiles knew that there were unseen depths to their feelings for each other and it had only been confirmed when Jackson was killed in action back in April during the Battle of Fumirole.

Just before he left New Alexandria, Jackson had set his hand on Stiles’ shoulder and depolarized his visor to look him in the eyes as he said, “Take care of Lydia for me, Stilinski.”

And Stiles had said, “I’ve been looking after her for longer than you, buddy.”

Jackson had nodded and he gave Stiles’ shoulder a squeeze before he walked away. For weeks after his death, Lydia had come to Stiles’ room every night. He never once protested. He simply shifted to make room in his bed and pulled back the blankets for her before wrapping his arms around her waist. And if Lydia ever cried, Stiles never said a word about it; simply held her a little closer and pressed his lips to her hair. But Lydia was strong. She found her feet again and now stood taller than ever, even when she wasn’t wearing her designer heels.

“He died,” Lydia said to Stiles the last time she slept in his bed, “but _I_ didn’t.”

It was probably at that moment as well when Stiles realized that he didn’t want to marry Lydia anymore, he just wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. It wasn’t as if he stopped loving her or even loved her any less; somewhere along the line, the nature of that love simply evolved into something that ran deeper down, filling in cracks he never knew he had and solidifying.

Lydia sits daintily at her desk and Stiles sits across from her when she gestures to the seat. From her designer handbag, she extracts two bento boxes and two pairs of chopsticks.

“Really, Lydia?” Stiles says. “You’re going to make me use chopsticks when I have a concussion?”

“It will help your coordination skills.” Lydia opens the boxes and sets them in the middle of her desk before handing Stiles his chopsticks.

Stiles rolls his eyes and takes them from her hand. He has difficulty using chopsticks even at top capacity. He has a feeling that Lydia enjoys watching him struggle. He wordlessly jabs a California roll after drowning it in soy sauce and shoves it into his mouth unceremoniously. Lydia looks a little pained.

“Did you even taste the roll?”

“I tasted the soy sauce on the roll, if that counts.”

Lydia rolls her eyes and takes a bite of salmon nigirizushi. “So tell me about the SPARTANs your father has you working with.”

“Commander Laura is pretty awesome,” Stiles says. “She’s probably pissed at me though; I kind of went over her head about the whole Sabre thing and _might_ have made her look like an idiot in front of a civilian. But she’s a good leader. Very efficient. Boyd is quiet, but he’s a tank. I tell you, I do not envy the Covenant that got in his path yesterday. He seems really down to earth. Erica is the sharpshooter. I like her and at the same time I’m not sure what to think of her. Half the time I can’t tell if she’s being serious or not. Scott is really great! If he had grown up in New Alexandria with us, you might have even had some competition.”

“You would have had a humiliatingly desperate crush on him for a decade?” Lydia gives Stiles a too-innocent smile and he narrows his eyes at her.

“Not like that. He’s like my SPARTAN bro. But don’t worry, you’re still my best friend. Besides, I think his best friend position is kind of taken by Isaac. Not gonna lie, Isaac has a bit of a serial killer thing going on, but he and Scott seem to take their cues from each other.”

“And what about the SPARTAN who saved your life yesterday?”

“Derek? I don’t really know what to make of him.” Stiles frowns. “He’s a massive dick, but my dad told me that he was watching over me in the infirmary—or it was implied anyway. And just before we hit the ground, he turned himself onto his back and made me let go of him with my legs so that he would take most of the force when we landed.”

“Well,” says Lydia, “I can’t say anything about him waiting for you in the infirmary, but what he did as you were falling was basic common sense. The Mark V armor is vastly superior to what the UNSC issues to their marines. It can handle a lot more G-force.”

“True.”

“So tell me…” Lydia eats a piece of ginger before plucking a California roll from the bento. “On a scale of one to ten, how attractive is Derek?”

Stiles draws his eyebrows together. “Why are you eating the ginger alone?”

“It’s a palate cleanser, Stiles. You’re supposed to eat it alone. Why are you avoiding the question?”

He lets out a breath. “It’s hard to say exactly, I mean it was a high-adrenaline situation and I was kind of freaking out at the moment…”

“ _Stiles_.”

“Twelve.”

She raises her eyebrows, looking impressed.

“But this changes nothing, Lydia Martin. The dude is a jackass.” Stiles points his chopstick at her.

“You won’t even think about introducing me?” She bats her eyelashes.

“Introduce yourself; it’s not like you’ve ever really needed a wingman before. But if I’m being honest with you, I wouldn’t get my hopes up. He’s the angsty brooder-type. ‘We’re soldiers and we’re all gonna die.’” He adopts a low, gruff voice in an impression of the SPARTAN.

“A shame.”

Stiles glances around Lydia’s desk until his eyes land on the folders. “So tell me about your latest project.”

And Lydia just fucking grins.

 

After lunch, Stiles is herded back to the infirmary, and after promising to name his firstborn (regardless of gender) after her, Lydia brings him his laptop to keep him company. The first thing Stiles does is hack into his father’s files to pick through classified UNSC documents. With some strategic navigating, he manages to find a folder for the SPARTAN-II Program. He clicks on it immediately and reads as much as he can, but the article is sparse and no amount of digging will retrieve the redacted components that are missing. Stiles figures that either his father doesn’t have the clearance for the information or Dr. Halsey decided to keep it to herself and Franklin Mendez.

What Stiles is able to piece together from the articles and some of Team Noble’s implications is this: in 2517, Dr. Catherine Halsey brought to life the SPARTAN-II Program, a last-ditch effort to turn the tide of the battle against insurrectionists while minimizing casualties and maximizing efficiency to prevent all-out war. To do so, she took inspiration from the ORION Project and set out to create an elite team of super-soldiers. 150 candidates—all children six years of age and of both sexes—from the Outer Colonies were selected via genetic screening, and of the candidates, seventy-five were kidnapped and brought to Reach for training by Chief Petty Officer Franklin Mendez. They also received high-level education in regular school subjects and a generous dose of military indoctrination. In 2525, when the subjects were fourteen, they underwent extensive biological augmentation procedures. The details of what exactly these procedures entailed have been redacted, but Stiles can surmise a fair bit from what he’s seen of Laura. Of the seventy-five children, only thirty-three made it through the augmentation successfully and were further trained for battle. The presence of the Covenant accelerated the SPARTAN-II Program to begin Project MJOLNIR, which birthed the characteristic armor the super-soldiers now all wear. The SPARTAN-II Program went public in 2547 to give the Earth colonies hope as the war against the Covenant became increasingly dire.      

Satisfied, Stiles moves on to research everything he can about the SPARTAN-III Program. What he finds is… disheartening.

The SPARTAN-III Program was initiated in 2531 by the Beta-5 Division of the Office of Naval Intelligence. Its goal was to mass produce cheap super-soldiers to carry out missions with extremely high casualty estimates (Stiles winces as he reads this, hearing Derek’s voice in his head saying, ‘ _The SPARTAN-IIIs were made to be expendable._ ’ God, how painful it must have been to know all along. He thinks of Scott and Laura, and of Derek, who was prepared to die for him as they fell thousands of feet from the sky even while they spat insults in each other’s faces, and how _not_ expendable they are). To avoid the controversial issues of the SPARTAN-II Program and yield higher numbers, the subjects were selected with far fewer criteria and the augmentation process—once again, the details of which have been redacted—was far less extreme. Instead of being kidnapped as the SPARTAN-II subjects were, the 497 SPARTAN-III candidates, all four to six years of age, were all orphaned in the Covenant war and recruited. The SPARTAN-III Program was headed by Colonel James Ackerson, who interestingly enough was once opposed the SPARTAN-II Program. Ackerson recruited SPARTAN-051 (who was promoted to Lieutenant Commander Kurt Ambrose) and Franklin Mendez to train the subjects at Camp Currahee on Onyx. Of the candidates, 300 were approved to become SPARTANs—which, under different circumstances, Stiles might have been amused by. After augmentation, the SPARTANs went active in November of 2536. At the end of July the next year, they were all decimated in Operation: PROMETHEUS. This was the Alpha Company.

The bodies of the Alpha Company had barely gone cold before Ackerson got approval to start selecting candidates for the Beta Company. 418 children were selected this time, and they began their training in 2539. Once again, only 300 were approved to receive augmentation and become full-fledged SPARTANs. Once again, they were slaughtered, but this time they managed to stay alive for five years before nearly all of them were killed in Operation: TORPEDO in 2545.

With a little more probing, Stiles is able to confirm what he deduced from his reading on the SPARTAN Programs: a number of SPARTAN-IIIs from the Alpha and Beta Companies were pulled from the rest of the SPARTANs based on their levels of competence and whether or not they matched the genetic criteria characteristic of the original SPARTAN-IIs. These SPARTANs went on to carry out more complex missions as leaders or were reassigned into Noble Team.

He lets out a slow breath as he closes his laptop. A small part of Stiles wants to go to his dad’s office and hug him for a while, but most of all he just wants to find Derek.  He forces himself shakily to his feet and tucks his feet into the discarded boots next to his cot. His head aches and his vision spins a little, but he forces himself to walk slowly, gritting his teeth against the pain in his ribs. The infirmary is on the ground floor for ease of access, so he only has to descend one level in the elevator down the hall to make his way to Noble Team’s quarters. By the time he turns the last corner, the linoleum floor is looking like a good place to lay down for a nap, but he presses on until he’s finally tapping at the door to Derek’s room.

He enters without waiting for permission and immediately freezes, face heating as he gets an eyeful of the SPARTAN’s bare back as he pulls an undershirt on. It’s one thing to know intellectually that a man is strong and quite another to see extent of his muscle mass right in front of you. Stiles knows that he’s fit, but his arms feel like noodles dangling from his t-shirt in comparison to the way Derek’s biceps bulge as he pulls his shirt down over the stretch of skin above his sweats, and Stiles’ eyes are drawn to the dark, mottled bruises along Derek’s spine. His stomach twists with guilt.

Derek turns toward Stiles and he only has a brief moment to appreciate how handsome the SPARTAN is before he realizes that those green-grey eyes are glaring coldly at him.

“What are you doing here?” Derek demands. “You should be in the infirmary.”

“So should you,” Stiles replies automatically. “Cracked vertebrae are serious business.”

“Thanks for the input. Go back to the infirmary or I’ll take you there myself.”

Stiles makes a noise of frustration. “Look, I came to thank you.”

Derek blinks and the only way Stiles can describe the look on his face is complete _shock_. It’s like the man has never been thanked in his life. “What for?”

“You saved my life.”

Derek frowns as if it should be obvious. Stiles swallows awkwardly.

“Uh, and I also wanted to apologize,” he says. “For what I said before, I mean. I can’t even begin to imagine what it must have been like to lose nearly everything you care about. Between your family and Operation: PROMETHEUS—”

Derek’s gaze hardens. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Stiles licks his lips and nods. He can feel the uptick of his heartbeat in response to the way Derek is looking at him and he now evaluates the SPARTAN’s body not in terms of attractiveness but to gauge the level of threat he presents. Without his armor Derek is two inches shorter than usual, but he still has to have a hundred pounds on Stiles.

“Okay,” Stiles says carefully. “No PROMETHEUS. That’s cool. I just wanted to say sorry for all that shit I said to you about not knowing how to be human. I have practically no brain-to-mouth filter and I was just being a jackass because I could. There: I did it. I admitted I was wrong. This is an extremely rare occasion, so I suggest you write it down in your little SPARTAN day calendar.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Right.” He walks over to Stiles and grabs his upper arm, and without stopping, begins to all but drag him down the hall. 

Stiles stumbles along, protesting, “Hey, bad-touch!” but to no avail. Despite his feeble struggling, Stiles notices that though Derek’s grip is firm, it’s not hard enough to bruise. He’s like a paradox: all sharp lines and jagged anger, but callused hands gentle to avoid causing harm. It adds to the mosaic Stiles is slowly putting together in his mind, piece by broken piece, to create an image of the SPARTANs.

Derek holds Stiles upright in the elevator for an awkward thirty seconds before he brings the marine down the hall, turns down a few corners, and finally pushes open the door to the infirmary with one hand. Dr. Deaton raises an eyebrow at the pair, looking up from the chart in his hands, and his usual enigmatic smile toys at the corners of his lips.

“Mr. Stilinski, I see that Noble Eight has brought you back to us safe and sound once again,” the dark-skinned man says with amusement.

Stiles gives Derek a side-eyed scowl; the SPARTAN has the audacity to look completely nonchalant about all of this. Stiles notes that a better understanding of Derek does not in any way make his terrible personality more tolerable.

“It’s not a problem, sir,” says Derek, and he leads Stiles over to his cot roughly, shoving him down before kneeling to remove Stiles’ boots. He looks up and meets Stiles’ eyes with a sardonic smirk.

Stiles gapes at him, eyes narrowing. “You _bastard._ ”

By the time Derek is standing again, his expression has closed off into an unreadable mask. “I’ll take my leave then,” he says to Deaton, and he doesn’t even look at Stiles before exiting.

Deaton immediately begins to check on the state of Stiles’ concussion, but the marine is only half paying attention. Instead, Stiles is quietly plotting revenge.  

 

A few hours later, Scott enters the infirmary and flops onto Stiles’ bed with a groan.

“What ails you, my sweet?” Stiles asks.

“I met some of the ODSTs today,” Scott answers.

“Oh yeah, they’re pretty cool. What’s bothering you?”

“She’s so perfect.”

Stiles frowns. “Who?”

Scott sits up, a dreamy look glazing his eyes. “Remember the retired ODST at the Manassas Spaceport who was giving you ground support?”

“No, I don’t remember anything about one of the most traumatizing days of my life.” Stiles gives Scott an unimpressed frown.

“It’s his daughter. Her name is Allison. She’s so badass…”

“Well yeah,” Stiles says. “That’s kind of a requirement for being an Orbital Drop Shock Trooper. Plus, she’s a total prodigy. I mean she’s our age.”

Scott nods, grinning widely.

“Oh god, you’re like a lovesick puppy.”

“I can’t help it! I saw her training and she was _amazing._ She could tear me apart without breaking a sweat!”

“Are you a masochist?” Stiles shuts his eyes, groaning. “Wait, don’t answer that.”

“What do I do, man?” Scott asks.

“Just ask her to train with you,” says Stiles. “Go to the firing range or say you need to work on hand-to-hand combat and cop a feel.”

“I’m not going to cop a feel, I just met her!”

“Glad to hear you’re a man of virtue, Scott. There may be hope for you yet. Now if only the rest of the SPARTANs could follow your example. I swear you and Laura are the most functional out of everyone.”

Scott shoves Stiles playfully and they share a laugh.

 

Laura visits that evening.

As soon as she enters the infirmary, Stiles sits up straight and salutes to her. She returns the gesture before walking over to the side of his bed.

“Hey, Laura.”

“How are you feeling?” she asks.

“A bit of a headache is hanging on and my ribs ache, but other than that I’m fine,” Stiles says honestly.

Laura nods pensively. “I wanted to talk to you about yesterday.”

Stiles gives her his undivided attention and nods. He knew this conversation was coming eventually.

Laura meets his eyes. “I don’t like that you made your intentions known at the last minute in front of a civilian without first confronting me. It reflects poorly on my abilities as a commander. However… if you had failed to suggest your plan at all, many lives would have been lost yesterday due to my lack of foresight. Thank you.”

“No, you’re right,” says Stiles. “I should have discussed it with you beforehand—at the very least, before we entered the Spaceport. I keep fucking up with you.”

“Not so much as you do with Noble Eight.”

“Yeah, but Derek’s a sanctimonious prick.”

“So he finally told you his name, did he?” Laura smiles faintly.

“Right before he launched us from a burning star-fighter as it fell thousands of feet to the ground,” Stiles says bitterly.

Laura chuckles. “Well at least it’s progress. Who knows? We may make a civil man out of him yet.”

“I wouldn’t keep my hopes up.”

“You’d be surprised,” Laura says fondly.

Stiles thinks about what he read about the SPARTAN-II and III Programs and decides he wouldn’t be.

“Anyway, you did some great piloting out there, Stiles. Good job.”

Stiles nods, giving her a half-smile. “Thanks. And make sure Derek didn’t crack his vertebrae—his back looks like hell.”

“Peter already checked him out.”

“Peter’s here?” Stiles perks up with interest.

“Of course. He has been mainly harassing my Team.”

“Yeah, that sounds like the guy.”

“He’s an interesting fellow,” Laura admits.

“That’s one way to put it.”

Laura winks. “Get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow, Stilinski.”

“Thanks. You too, Commander.” And when Laura finally leaves, Stiles sinks back in his cot and rolls onto his side, trying not to picture a six year old girl crying as she’s brought to a strange planet away from her family. Or a fourteen year old writhing in agony as drugs seep into her blood intravenously. A twelve year old boy crushed by the news of overwhelming death. He tries to picture nothing at all.

 

Stiles once heard that every plan is a tiny prayer to Father Time, and like prayers to any god, they often go unanswered. Stiles would never enact his plan for vengeance on Derek, for on August 18, 2552, the Covenant began their siege on New Alexandria.      


	4. Into the Fire (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I broke this chapter into two parts because I didn't want to make you guys have to wait a long-ass time for it. I'm sorry you had to wait so long already!

Stiles regularly hacks into his father’s files to read classified documents. That’s how he found out about the YSS-1000 Sabre Project, which was meant to be kept top secret. He blackmailed his father with the Project information in exchange for being signed up as a test pilot. While he was in training, Stiles befriended a pilot in the UNSC Airforce and was taught the basics in private. These skills later came in handy when insurrectionists killed the pilots of a Dropship 77-Troop Carrier (or Pelican) midflight with anti-aircraft weaponry while Stiles’ fireteam was onboard. Stiles took control of the Pelican and managed to fly his team to safety while they called in for backup. This is the only reason Major Stilinski allowed him to go through with test piloting the Sabre. 

 

 

 

_ August 18, 2552 _

**SPARTAN-A143**

Derek huffs out a breath as he straightens his arms, ignoring the way the muscles in his back protest as he mentally counts his hundredth push-up. He has completed his morning workout routine under far less favourable conditions, he thinks, remembering the recovery after his augmentation when he was twelve years old. But old habits die hard, and so he’s about to press on when Major Stilinski’s voice sounds over the PA with an urgent tone.

“All available fire teams, move out! Noble Team, Delta-03, and the 14th Shock Troops Battalion: meet me in command! Suit up and get yourselves armed to the teeth. The Covenant have sent Brutes into New Alexandria! Prioritize the safety of civilians!”

Derek scrambles to his feet and ignores the slick sweat on his arms as he pulls on his Mark V armor. Once his helmet has been fit over his head, he grabs his shotgun and sidearm before hurrying from his quarters to meet with the rest of his team. Laura wastes no time before leading them down the hall and they’re about to turn the corner when Laura crashes into a figure who yelps with pain in an all too familiar voice.

“Stilinski, what are you doing here?” Derek asks.

The marine looks up into Derek’s visor with wide eyes. “Deaton said I could fight.”

“You’re lying.”

For a moment it looks like Stilinski is going to protest, but then something hardens in his eyes and he levels Derek with a glare. “Yeah, I am. But if you think I’m just going to lay back while the Covenant tries to take my city, you are dead wrong. And let’s be real: if you want to stop me, you’re going to have to drag me kicking and screaming back to the infirmary and strap me down because orders or no, there is no way in hell I am sitting this one out. Personally, I think letting me fight would save you a lot of unnecessary time and effort.”

Laura claps Stilinski on the shoulder and uses her grip to spin him around to keep walking toward the command center. “You’ve got the right spirit, kid. Don’t let it get you killed.”

“Besides, you could use me,” Stilinski says. “I’ve lived in New Alexandria my whole life. I can help strategize.”

“Now that’s what I like to hear.” Laura gives Stilinski’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before releasing him. The marine’s gait is uneven as he tries to keep up with the SPARTAN-II’s longer steps. When they reach command the Major takes one look at his son and his entire body seems to sink with exasperation, but Stilinski stands up a little straighter, eyes pleading and defiant at the same time, and the Major gives a short, jerky nod of understanding. Finstock and Delta-03 are already present as well as the ODSTs. Scott immediately goes to stand closer to one of the troopers and Derek realizes that it must be Argent’s daughter again. Laura depolarizes her helmet and says to the Major, “Awaiting orders, sir.”

“As much as I want to ensure the safety of civilians, evacuating them is going to have to be a last resort,” the Major says. “I don’t like the odds that they’ll be blown out of the sky by the Covenant fleet the second they’re in orbit. Right now we’re directing civilians to come here, and I’ve given instructions to several teams to help protect them. The rest are fighting off the foot soldiers. The Covenant started on the east end of the city and I want you in the thick of it; end this fight before it gets any worse and save as many innocents as you can.”

“We’re Helljumpers, sir,” says the ODST sergeant—Derek thinks her name was Baccari. “Getting ‘in the thick of it’ is what we do best.”

“You can count on us,” Laura agrees.

“I’m glad to hear it,” says the Major.

“I’d say the same, but we’ve got Greenberg,” says Finstock.      

The Major raises his eyebrows, but he doesn’t address the issue. Instead, he looks at each soldier in turn before his gaze finally falls on his son. “Be safe,” he orders in a soft voice.

Derek can see the corner of Stilinski’s mouth tilt upward below the visor of his helmet and the marine promises, “I will.” The Major suddenly steps forward and father and son clasp hands tightly, eyes locked as a thousand words are exchanged between them in that rare, silent form of communication that can only pass between parent and child. He can barely remember anything of the family he had before they were killed by the Covenant and he was drafted into the SPARTAN-III Program—the vague impression of faces, a laugh and the smell of jasmine—but it occurs to him now how much Major Stilinski must _hate_ sending his son into battle. The thought makes him uncomfortable and he has to look away.

When the Stilinskis finally release each other, Laura gives the Major a nod of acknowledgement and says, “Alright, ladies. Let’s head out; we’ve got a city to protect.”

She leads them toward the hangar to get Warthogs for faster transport, and as they walk, Scott falls into step with Private Stilinski. When they reach the hangar, Laura splits them into groups of four: Laura is with two ODSTs and one marine from Delta-03; Scott, much to his joy, is with Allison Argent and two other ODSTs; Finstock is with three of his marines, one of which is Greenberg; Isaac is with three ODSTs; Baccari is with three more of her ODSTs; Boyd and Erica are together with two marines; and Derek is with Stilinski, Mahealani, and Daehler.

When they set out, Derek drives with Stilinski in the passenger seat next to him. Mahealani stands at the turret mounted on the back of the Warthog and Daehler is perched next to the turret, assault rifle steady in his hands as his icy blue eyes narrow at their surroundings. They travel in a convoy with Laura in the lead and Derek right behind her. Major Stilinski’s voice crackles over the radio, directing them to keep off of main roads so that the way is clear for civilians on their way to the ONI facility for refuge. In his peripheral vision, Derek can see down the adjacent roads they pass where crowds of people are milling about by the entrance of the facility as the UNSC struggles to account for them all.

Though he’s only been in New Alexandria for three days now, Derek is long used to the way Stilinski is in constant motion—talking to fill the silence or fidgeting for something to do with his body—but now the marine is eerily still and quiet, eyes forward and brows drawn down with determination as he grips his battle rifle. It strikes him that he barely knows the man sitting next to him, has fought with him as both an adversary and an ally, protected his life with his own, but they don’t really _know_ each other. Self-sacrifice is something that comes with being a soldier, but drawing someone out of a panic attack and watching over them in the infirmary is something else. But for all Stilinski has talked and for all they’ve yelled at each other, Derek finds that he hasn’t really learned anything about him. He knows that the man is friends with an astrophysicist and that he and his father are close. That he’s stubborn to a fault, likes to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong, is a crack shot and a skilled pilot, how he looks when he’s terrified, and how his body shakes as he laughs when he thinks he’s about to die. And Derek doesn’t really think he’s overly fond of the kid, but he doesn’t hate him either. Stilinski is stupidly brave, and Derek can’t help but respect that just a little.

As they draw closer to the outskirts of the city, the sound of battle grows louder; the fizzle of burning plasma, exploding grenades, gunfire, screams. At Laura’s command, the convoy splits up to cover more ground and when Derek glances up, he sees the sleek exoskeleton of a Covenant ground support aircraft. The Banshee is small and versatile with a cowl-like body and two weapon pods located beneath the fuselage. Streaks of indigo vapour stretch out behind the tips of the wings as they circle like carrion crows. 

“Mahealani,” Derek murmurs.

“I’m on it,” says the marine, and he aims the turret at the nearest craft before firing. The Banshee immediately takes notice and Derek accelerates the vehicle in anticipation of retaliation. A blast of plasma comes their way and Derek turns to avoid it. He pulls up behind what’s left of a corner store.

“Stilinski and Daehler, I want you two working on recovering civilians and getting them out of here,” Derek says. “Mahealani and I will distract the Covenant as much as possible.”

“Yes, sir,” says Stilinski, and he jumps down from the passenger seat without wasting any time. Daehler follows, clearly not in much of a hurry, and Stilinski marches on ahead without any care for the other marine.

“Pick up the pace, Daehler,” Derek commands. “We need to work as a cohesive team, and that means watching each other’s back.”

“As you can see, I _am_ watching his back,” Daehler says, “as it walks away from me.”

Derek rolls his eyes and steps on the gas. Mahealani resumes shooting at the Banshee when it comes back into sight.

 

 

**SPARTAN-B315**

When Scott was in training for the SPARTAN-III Program, he never excelled academically. He wasn’t stupid, but school subjects were uninteresting to him. It was always treated as secondary to learning hand-to-hand combat and how to fire a gun. Regardless, he managed to pull off mediocre grades. His one exception was biology; Scott was unrivaled. Somehow, he just _got_ it. He was fascinated by life and how the body worked, whether it was human or not. In another life, another Scott who wasn’t destined to be a soldier probably would have gone on to pursue veterinary school. But the Scott who was a soldier was trained as a field medic. He carried a kit with him at all times in battle, strapped to his back. Despite Scott’s inherent passion for medicine, he hated having to use it; after all, it meant someone had been hurt.  

“Ma’am, please try to remain calm,” Scott tells a woman in her thirties as she panics. “Allison, could you please hold her down?”

Allison doesn’t hesitate before gently placing her gloved hands on the woman’s shoulders. Scott carefully pushes what’s left of the woman’s shirt up to see the entirety of the burn on her side. She whimpers and sobs from the pain and Scott cringes at the sight; her flesh is blackened in some areas, the skin completely eaten away. He takes the medical kit from his back and grabs a can of MediGel. He shakes the can before holding it over the wound and pressing down on the release. The woman’s breaths come faster with panic at the first touch of the gel, but when Scott begins to gingerly rub it into the burn, her shuddering subsides as the numbing effects set in.

“I wish I could do more for you, but there’s no time,” says Scott. The visor of his helmet is depolarized—he finds it soothes people more when they can see the face of their rescuer—so he smiles sadly at the woman.

“Thank you,” she says weakly, and a few tears trickle from the corners of her eyes. Scott and Allison help her to her feet and carefully walk her over to the rest of the survivors they’ve found nestled in a hotel lobby. Once she’s seated in one of the plush armchairs, Scott and Allison walk a little ways away from the group and Scott brings up the radar on the view-screen of his visor.

“More hostiles are on the way,” Scott says as he spies the approaching cluster of red dots.

“Let’s meet them.” Allison directs one of the ODSTs to stay with the civilians while the other joins her and Scott as they exit the lobby and walk out onto the cracked sidewalk. Scott hefts his assault rifle into a ready position, planting the butt of the weapon firmly against the meat of his shoulder as he leads the ODSTs toward the approaching threat. They duck behind a building and Scott spies an overturned bus on the street, burning lazily in the summer heat. The Covenant are just around the corner and Scott can hear them speaking in their strange tongue. He raises a hand, making eye contact with Allison and the other ODST in turn, gestures toward the bus and holds up three fingers, then two, one, and finally a curled fist before they dash together to the bus. There’s a shout from the Covenant foot soldiers and bolts of plasma fly overhead as they duck down.

They take cover behind the undercarriage of the bus and Scott peeks over the top of it; there are about seven Brutes in the squad, their grotesque, apelike bodies covered with armor and their hands gripping their guns. Scott, Allison, and the ODST intermittently shoot at the squadron and crouch to evade the return fire. Scott suddenly hears a hissing noise and pokes his head up to see a blue sphere spewing bright gas as it adheres to the hubcap of the bus’s front wheel.

“ _Grenade!_ ” he shouts, and they scatter, diving out from behind the bus as the sphere ruptures and causes a secondary blast as the bus engine explodes. Scott rolls to one knee and fires at the Brutes who now run toward him. Three have gone down, four are left. Allison takes out another as she shoots one in each eye with her battle rifle. When one of the Brutes is a meter away, Scott lunges to close the distance between them and bashes it with his gun. Bone crunches against metal as the Brute’s face caves in beneath the blow and it falls dead to the pavement. Allison and the ODST take out the last two. Scott stares down at the Brute he’s beaten with his rifle. A fly has already taken interest in the torn flesh and grey matter that glistens wetly in the sunlight. “I hate war,” he mutters.

 

 

_ August 19, 2552 _

**SPARTAN-B176**

Isaac makes sure to learn the names of the ODSTs he’s fighting with. Ethan and Aiden are identical twins. He calls them by first name. The other ODST is a tough young woman named Braeden.

Scott hates being a SPARTAN. Even if it wasn’t a conversation they’d had before, Isaac can tell. Scott’s hands were made for healing, not killing. Isaac only ever knew Scott peripherally before they were pulled from the Beta Company before Operation: TORPEDO, but he knew that despite Scott’s distaste, he was the leader of his fire team. Scott was a good leader; almost as good as Laura. He was kind, reasonable, and treated the members of his team as equals.

Isaac has never cared for leadership, was content taking orders from the leader of his fire team, but he likes being a SPARTAN. His memories of his family’s death have blurred over with time, but he remembers how helpless he felt. His most vivid memory is of his father lifting him into the old freezer in his basement, telling him, ‘ _You stay in here, Isaac, and don’t come out no matter what you hear_ ,’ and then he’d shut the lid, trapping Isaac in darkness. The next time the freezer opened, a day had passed and Isaac was squinting and blinking up at a military officer who was running recon in search of survivors. Isaac never wants to be that helpless again. As a SPARTAN, he’s strong. He can fight back against the Covenant and make sure no one has to feel as lost as he did.

The Covenant have moved deeper into the city. The horde seems endless. Isaac, Braeden, and the twins are crouched in an alleyway between a convenience store and a small boutique.

“There are about fifteen hostiles on my radar,” says Isaac. “I’m estimating a good hundred feet around the corner. We’re going to move through the alleys and try to take them off guard. Braeden, you’re with me. The twins are together. Ethan, Aiden: I want the two of you to flank them from eight o’clock. I’ll cause a diversion.”

The twins nod in unison and hurry down the narrow street to get into position. Isaac pulls the pin from a frag grenade and reaches around the corner to toss it toward the Covenant. He and Braeden immediately take off at a sprint, and behind them Isaac hears the grenade detonate. There’s a series of raucous shouts from the Covenant and Isaac speeds up. He rounds a corner to take the squadron from three o’clock, cocking his dual submachine guns. He sets his energy shield to full capacity and Braeden stays behind him, aiming around the side of his body as they begin to fire.

The Covenant turn toward them, attention diverted from the grenade explosion, and as they begin to shoot at Isaac and Braeden, Isaac barks into his comm, “ _Now!_ ”

Immediately he hears the staccato cracks of the twins’ weapons firing and Isaac laughs at the Covenant’s momentary confusion. They push forward with little regard for taking cover. They’re running the skirmish like a blitzkrieg, trying to give the Covenant as little time to retaliate as possible. Plasma fizzles against Isaac’s energy shield and Braeden ducks behind him as another volley of shots come their way. Isaac breaks out of the alley and aims his machine guns on either side of his body, leaving his chest open. Braeden crouches next to him and they take out Brutes and Grunts alike systemically.

When Isaac hears a low, electric hum, he shouts, “ _Ghost!_ ” and he crowds Braeden back into the alley as the low-hovering craft speeds into the street.

There’s a sickening crunch and he hears a cry of, “ _Aiden!_ ” but he pays it no attention as he darts out of the alley toward the Ghost. The Brute piloting it turns it toward him and fires shots of plasma as it accelerates toward him. Just before they collide, he jumps and plants his feet together horizontally, catching the Brute high in the shoulder. He propels himself away from the Ghost and watches as the Brute loses control of the vehicle, sending it careening into the side of a florist shop. The Ghost explodes with a burst of bright potassium flames. Isaac brushes his hands together with satisfaction and looks around at the lack of standing hostiles. Then he notices Ethan kneeling on the pavement, clutching his bloodied twin to his body with a wail of anguish. “ _No, no, no!_ ”

Braeden watches somberly as Isaac strides over to the twins. He tugs at Ethan’s shoulder to pull him back and the ODST protests even louder. “I’m trying to inspect the damage, you stupid ass!” With a frustrated noise, Isaac shoves his hands between the twins and forcibly pulls them apart. He crouches down and presses his fingers to Aiden’s throat, ignoring the glassy, sightless stare of his open eyes. There’s no heartbeat. Isaac sighs and fishes out the ODST’s dog-tags, unclipping one and pressing it into Ethan’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Aiden, _no!_ ” Ethan’s voice is ragged. He immediately latches onto his twin again, body shaking beneath the vast weight of his grief.

Isaac hears the rumble of an engine and looks up as Sergeant Baccari pulls up next to the sad trio with a Warthog.

“Glad to see my ODSTs are doing their job properly,” Baccari says, gesturing at the dead Covenant. Then her voice softens, “Ethan, I’m sorry.”

“Where’s the rest of your team?” asks Isaac, gesturing at the lone ODST standing at the turret mounted on the back of the vehicle.

“They’re with Noble Twelve.”

Isaac nods. “Fair enough. Mind giving us a lift?” He pats Ethan’s shoulder to get his attention. “We have to move. We’re not needed here anymore.” Ethan doesn’t respond, still sobbing against his dead twin’s chest. “Ethan, we have to go.” When Ethan remains absorbed in his sorrow, Isaac moves around to face him and slaps him, _hard_. “Get a hold of yourself, man!”

Ethan blinks up at Isaac with tearful eyes. “You’re a fucking bastard, you know that?”

“Look, now’s not the time. Would you like to join him? Wait, don’t answer that. We still need you, Ethan. There will be time to grieve later.”

Ethan grits his teeth, glaring at Isaac, but then he finally lets out a shuddering breath and lays down his brother. He presses a kiss to Aiden’s forehead before he stands and shoves his way past Isaac to get into the Warthog. Isaac sighs and Braeden meets his eyes for an awkward second before looking away. They get onto the Warthog and Baccari presses down on the gas, leaving the dead Covenant and Aiden’s corpse in their wake.

 

 

**Private First Class Stilinski**

They’re fighting.

Again.

Danny is watching them bicker back and forth with exasperation. Matt Daehler looks like he is strongly considering the merits of deep-throating his M9.

“You know, _Noble Eight_ , I’m just saying that you could really benefit from taking some input from your teammates,” says Stiles. “And by ‘really benefit’, I mean ‘not look like a dumbass’.”

“Democracy is a luxury, _Private Stilinski_ ,” says Derek. “We can’t stop and take a vote every time we see that there’s a horde of Covenant up ahead. There isn’t enough time.”

“Good leadership isn’t a dictatorship!”

“Good leadership won’t keep you alive! If I say ‘shoot the fucking Grunt’, you need to shoot the fucking Grunt before you get yourself and the rest of my team killed! You can’t argue with every order I give you. Good leadership does not equal _effective_ leadership.”

“No, but if you would take one second to just _listen_ , then I could tell you that shooting the fucking Grunt will alert the rest of the squadron and rain fiery plasma hell upon us!”

“Do you just have some kind of inherent issue with authority?”

“A little! But mostly I take issue with commanding officers who talk big shit about strategizing when they know nothing about the environment.” There’s barely a foot of space between them, and Stiles can picture Derek glaring behind his visor. “I have lived in New Alexandria my whole life. Don’t even pretend you know this city better than I do. You’re just a _tourist_.”

Derek turns to Danny. “If I shot him right now, how difficult do you think it would be to convince his father it was the Covenant?”

Danny raises his hands, looking mildly alarmed. “Don’t drag me into this!”

“Thanks, Danny. I’m really feeling the support,” Stiles sneers.

“I’ll shoot him,” Matt volunteers.

“Shut the fuck up, Daehler,” they all say in unison.

“Alright, Stilinski,” says Derek. “Tell me what exactly is wrong with my plan.”

“You say you want to cut through the industrial district, but what you’re probably picturing is a bunch of warehouses and factories all conveniently compressed around a few city blocks. _Think again._ The buildings are all spread out, leaving us completely open to Banshee fire. And when those Banshees see us, they’re going to alert the squad closest to us and we’ll be shit out of luck for cover. We need to stay in the shop district or go through the suburbs.”

“Why the suburbs?”

“This side of New Alexandria is like the slums. The houses are tall and compact with small lots. It will be more difficult for us to be seen. We’ll have to steer clear of the park, but that shouldn’t be difficult to do.”

“So what would you suggest?” Derek asks sardonically.

“Personally? I’d say the suburbs, because the Covenant would expect us to stay in familiar territory.”

“Which way?”

“What?”

“ _Which way?_ ” Derek says insistently. “Are you coming, or what?” He climbs into the driver’s seat of the Warthog and Danny gets up to man the turret.

A slow grin spreads across Stiles’ face and he hops into the passenger seat next to Derek. “We want to head northwest.”

“Northwest it is.” Derek turns the key in the ignition and the Warthog’s engine rumbles to life.

 

“Move over.”

Derek shifts to one side of the queen bed and Stiles collapses onto it, staring up at the ceiling with a great sigh. He lifts his arm and picks at the blue-flecked blood encrusted on his armor. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get it all off. Night has fallen and they’ve taken refuge in a house in the suburbs that took some heavy damage while they were fighting. It’s ten now, so Derek and Stiles are supposed to be catching some sleep until they trade off with Matt and Danny to keep watch.

Derek’s helmet is off, resting on the nightstand so that it remains within near distance. Stiles reaches up to pull off his own helmet and discards it on the floor with his battle rifle and Derek’s shotgun. They lay together without speaking for a few minutes, filling the room with the soft sound of their breathing and the occasional creak of their armor.

“Thanks,” Stiles says after a while.

“What for?” asks Derek.

“For listening to me. People don’t usually do that.”

“You don’t usually have anything useful to say.”

Stiles snorts. “You flatter me.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

Stiles gets up and walks over to the dresser, absently picking through the ex-inhabitants’ belongings. There’s a picture frame with a photo of a happy couple, a few receipts, some folded laundry, and knickknacks. He opens the jewelry box and finds a pack of cigarettes and a disposable lighter among gold earrings and the tangled chains of necklaces and bracelets and murmurs, “Jackpot.”

“Don’t steal anything,” says Derek.

Ignoring the SPARTAN, Stiles plucks a cigarette from the package and places it between his lips. He fights with the lighter for a second as it refuses to cooperate with his gloves before he curses and throws his gloves to the floor, pressing his bare thumb to the spark wheel to ignite the small flame. He brings the flame to his filched cigarette and inhales deeply as the end catches. The smoke burns his lungs and he fights the urge to cough as he backs up to sit on the edge of the bed, slowly letting out his breath and filling the bedroom with the scent of tobacco.

Stiles takes the cigarette between two fingers and turns to Derek, who watches him with an unreadable expression. “Want a drag?”

“I don’t smoke,” says Derek.

Stiles laughs. “Neither do I.”

Derek sits up and moves forward to sit next to Stiles. He removes his gloves and his fingers brush Stiles’ as they take the cigarette from them, bringing it to his own mouth. Stiles watches the embers glow bright red as Derek breathes in, casting an orange glow on his face. Derek’s hair is matted down against his head from wearing his helmet and his pupils are dilated in the darkness of the room. The SPARTAN turns toward Stiles and blows smoke in his face with a smirk. Stiles rolls his eyes and yanks the cigarette from Derek’s lips, sucking in a lungful of smoke so that he can return the treatment. He feels calmer and more relaxed as the stimulants in the nicotine compound on the Adderall he took before entering the bedroom. They quietly pass the cigarette back and forth, enjoying the stolen moment with the stolen cigarette in companionable silence.

When the cigarette has burned down to its filter, Derek takes it to the window and drops it outside before closing the window firmly. “Get some sleep, Stilinski. We have three and a half hours.”

“Why do you call me that?” Stiles asks.

Derek frowns. “Because it’s your name.”

“I’ve asked you to call me Stiles several times now.” He mumbles, “It’s what you called me before.” He thinks of Derek shouting his name as he fought for breath in the cockpit of the Sabre.

Derek meets Stiles’ eyes and just watches him for a drawn out minute before he nods. “Okay.”

Stiles nods back at him and shifts up the bed to lay down. While he tries to get comfortable in his armor, he feels the mattress dip beside him as Derek lays next to him.

“Goodnight, Derek,” Stiles sighs.

“Shut up, Stiles,” says Derek, but his tone lacks any bite.

Soon enough, Stiles drifts off into a light sleep.

 

 

_ August 20, 2552 _

**SPARTAN-B012**

The morning has brought with it a sweltering summer heat and Boyd counts his lucky stars that Catherine Halsey designed the Mark V MJOILNIR armor with multiple environments in mind. The internal temperature of the armor is carefully controlled, no small comfort when Boyd can see hot air rising from the street in blurred mirages of wet pavement, burning away the last of the fog that clings to the high rise buildings of New Alexandria. Sweat beads on the exposed skin of the two marines by his side and he does not envy them. Boyd shudders to think of how they’ll fare six hours from now.

“How much further, Noble Eleven?” he murmurs into his comm.

“Almost there, Twelve. One of the guards is taking a piss and most of the Covenant are still sleeping like babies,” says Erica. In his mind’s eye, Boyd pictures Erica in her vibrant red armor, perched nearly a mile away in the window of a stationary factory with her sniper rifle. If he closes his eyes, he can see the predatory grin on her lips behind her helmet and he very nearly smiles in response.

“Copy that, Noble Eleven.”

Erica had been in Boyd’s fire team before they were called out of the Beta Company. That Erica had been included in the list of SPARTANs to be reassigned came as a surprise to the both of them; the circumstances behind Erica’s initial recruitment into the SPARTAN-III Company were already something of an anomaly. She had been diagnosed with Dravet’s syndrome in infancy, suffering frequent, intense epileptic seizures. Immediately she stood out as a black sheep among the rest of the children when training began when she started to convulse during an obstacle course the first week there. Scott had actually been the one to run to her and try to hold her limbs to make sure she didn’t break them as her body jerked in his fragile hold. After that incident, she withdrew from the others. They were all healthy and strong, and she felt inadequate in her own flawed body. But Kurt pushed her. He pushed her harder than anyone else, and then a little more until she finally snapped. To this day, Boyd isn’t sure if Erica loves Kurt or despises him—he’s not sure even she knows. Regardless, Kurt’s tactic worked; Erica is now a fierce fighter with a short temper. Boyd has always been quiet and level-headed, making them the perfect team when they worked together.

Despite the setting, Boyd and Erica fast became close friends and confidants. Then something more. Because of Erica’s epilepsy, her augmentation included a microchip that was implanted into her brain to intercept the electrical signals when they threatened to short circuit. They shared their first kiss before Erica was taken in for the surgery. Their second came when the drug therapy stopped inducing vomiting.

When they were initially taken from the Beta Company, Erica and Boyd were separated. For three long years, they neither saw nor heard from each other, both off on separate missions. When they met again, now as members of Noble Team B, they weren’t sure how to interact at first, both filled with thoughts of the blossoming romance they’d started as young teenagers. But they soon fell into place beside each other, and the feelings they’d shared returned with fervor. It had scared both of them at first—the news of what had happened to the rest of the Beta Company was a heavy weight in their chests—but they later agreed that they would rather cherish the time they had together while they had it than dread the moment they were torn apart. It had worked out well so far.

Boyd punches out the basement window of the warehouse and gestures for the marines to go in silently while he covers them. Once they indicate that it’s all clear inside, Boyd lowers himself through the window and drops onto the cement floor. He hands each of the marines a pack of explosives and quietly indicates to them where the major supports of the building are. They part ways and Boyd goes to the supports closest to the stairwell to set up the explosives among the foundation. The building won’t be salvageable when this is over, but with the amount of Covenant taking refuge inside of it, the loss will be worth it.

“Set the timers for ten minutes,” Boyd murmurs into his comm. It’s enough time for him and the marines to finish planting the explosives and gain enough distance from the warehouse to avoid injury. He works fast and efficiently, keeping an ear open for the sound of Covenant approaching from the floor above. When he finishes with his last bomb pack, he asks, “Done with the explosives?”

“All done,” says Yamanaka, one of the marines.

“We’re ready to go,” confirms Walker.

“Let’s move on out then,” says Boyd. They meet back at the window and he asks into his comm, “How are we looking?”

“Give it a minute,” says Erica. “The Brute is looking around the side of the warehouse.” Boyd waits with Walker and Yamanaka for two minutes before Erica says, “You’re clear to go, and if anyone sees you, I’ll blow off their head.”

Boyd smirks. “Roger that, Noble Ten.” He lifts himself out of the window first to double check that the coast is clear. He trusts Erica implicitly, but his training demands that he always makes sure. He looks around, then reaches down for Yamanaka’s hand as he climbs up next. Then they both help Walker. When they’re all out, Boyd hisses, “Move! Move! Move!” and they dash toward the neighbouring warehouse sixty feet away. They manage to take cover around the side of the building without being seen, and they peek out from around the corner to watch when, a minute later, there’s a deep booming sound and fire erupts from the basement windows. Smoke rises in a great cloud and there are cries of alarm from the Covenant, just barely heard over the sound of the building’s foundation falling apart, and then the building collapses. The Brutes guarding the warehouse spring into action, looking for the culprit behind the destruction of their battalion, and blood sprays out on either side of one’s head before it falls to the ground. Then a second one. Boyd and the marines charge out then, shooting at the remaining two guards and they go down easily, blindsided as they searched in vain for the source of the sniper fire. Afterward, with a grin on his face, Boyd says into his comm, “Good shots, Ten.”

“Eleven, _please_. Those shots were _better_ than good,” Erica says.

Boyd laughs and doesn’t tell her any different.

 

 

**SPARTAN-A143**

By mid-afternoon, they reach the edge of the suburbs and Derek is crouched against a backyard fence as he checks his radar for the Covenant. The red blotches on the view screen in the corner of his visor indicate a large mass of them nearby. Derek stands, peeks over the top of the fence in search of visual contact, and crouches back down when he sees nothing.

“Anything?” asks Stilinski—or Stiles, as he insists Derek call him. Epsilon Eridani burns down on Reach, and Derek can see sweat beading on Stiles’ skin, his face flushed with the sweltering heat.

“No visual contact,” Derek murmurs. Into his comm, Derek asks, “How about you, Commander?”

“Negative,” says Laura. When Derek saw the size of the squadron he was facing, he called Laura’s team in for backup.

“Aren’t you SPARTANs supposed to be super soldiers?” says Daehler derisively.

“Shut up, Daehler.” There’s no feeling in Derek’s voice and the marine scoffs before mumbling to himself bitterly. “If you’re so impatient, why don’t _you_ go take a look?”

“What?”

Derek gestures behind him. “Go on. Climb over the fence and locate the Covenant if you think you’re better suited for the job.”

Daehler’s mouth drops open and he leans around Stiles to glare at Derek with icy blue eyes. “Are you trying to get me _killed?_ ”

“You volunteered to shoot me yesterday; I’m not feeling much sympathy,” says Stiles.

Mahealani rolls his eyes. “ _I’ll_ look.”

Stiles turns to him. “Do _you_ have a death wish?”

“If it means an alternative to listening to the three of you bicker, then yes.”

Laura says suddenly, “Wait. I’ll look.”

Stiles gives a dreamy sigh. “Commander, have I told you how amazing you are lately?”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Stilinski, and it certainly won’t gain you access to my personal files.”

Stiles hisses with disappointment.

Laura and her team are located northeast of Derek’s, forming an approximate ninety degree angle with Derek’s team. He waits for a few minutes for Laura’s cue as she gets closer to the cluster of hostiles on the radar map. The yellow dot representing her approaches the red mass.

“I see them,” Laura says.

“Awaiting your orders, Commander,” says Derek.

“When you and your team hop the fence, head to the right and cut down the third alley. When you have made visual contact with the hostiles, notify me and await further instruction.”

“Understood.” Derek turns to Stiles, Daehler, and Mahealani. “You heard the Commander. On my mark.” Derek stands, plants his hands firmly on the top of the fence and swings himself over with a soft thud as he hits the ground on the other side. The marines follow him without too much commotion and Derek holds his shotgun steady in his arms. “I want you to have your battle rifle at the ready, Stilinski,” he whispers.

“Already one step ahead of you,” Stiles replies. He moves up by Derek’s side, alternating between looking around with his naked eyes and peering through the scope of his rifle to spy the Covenant and detect their movements.

“Daehler, Mahealani?”

“Ready as we’ll ever be,” says Mahealani. When they reach the wall of the building just on the corner of the third alley, Stiles crouches and moves to the front of the group, inching forward to peek around the side of the building.

“Alright,” Stiles whispers. “We’re looking good.”

Derek nods and subvocalizes into his comm, “We’re in position.”

“Good. Sit tight and wait for my signal,” says Laura.

Derek shifts up next to Stiles, cranes his neck around to see the Covenant. Stiles is still, eye locked on his scope and index finger resting next to the trigger, ready to shoot at a moment’s notice. A Brute suddenly leaps around the corner on the other end of the alley roaring as it sees Derek and Stiles. It hurls its arm toward them and three rounds burst from Stiles’ battle rifle as he shoots, catching the Brute in the head. Derek sees something fly at them and he lurches back, but it’s too late. He hears the tell-tale click and feels the searing heat of plasma through the alloy of his helmet. Bright blue fumes flare in front of Derek’s visor. He turns to Stiles and their eyes meet with shared horror.

Distantly, he hears Laura’s tinny voice over the radio. “Noble Eight, what’s happening? I repeat: Noble Eight, _what’s happening?_ ”

Time seems to slow down. Derek shoves Stiles away from him and hollers, “ _Grenade!_ ” Daehler and Mahealani lunge back for safety.

Stiles shouts, “ _Derek!_ ” and leaps _for_ him, dropping his battle rifle to dangle from its strap. He digs his fingertips beneath the seam of Derek’s helmet and rips it off his head before throwing it as hard as he can away from them. Then he tackles Derek to the ground, straddling his chest, and hunches over, pressing his forearms into the pavement above Derek’s head to protect it from the blast as the plasma grenade attached to Derek’s helmet detonates behind them. There’s a burst of light haloing the marine above him, and when it fades, Derek blinks against the natural glow of Reach’s sun as he looks up into Stiles’ face. The marine is panting, eyes wide and darting about Derek’s features in search of injuries. Derek’s own heart pounds with the rush of adrenaline as he stares back at Stiles.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Stiles’ voice is breathy. “Are _you?_ ”

“Yeah.” And Derek’s isn’t much better.

“I guess we’re even now, huh?” says Stiles.

“You disobeyed a direct order.”

“I saved your _life_.” Stiles jabs a finger into Derek’s chest. “And yelling ‘ _grenade_ ’ is not an order.”

They watch each other for a moment longer before Derek nods and Stiles climbs off of him. They get to their feet and Derek looks around as the world comes back into sharp focus. Daehler and Mahealani have hoisted their guns up to their shoulders and are opening fire at the Covenant. Down past the mouth of the alleyway, Derek can see a second skirmish breaking out—Laura and her team arriving for backup. The Covenant scatter strategically to defend themselves from the attack on two fronts. Stiles lifts his battle rifle into his arms and meets Derek’s eyes briefly.

Derek cocks his shotgun and marches forward. “Let’s advance on them and get this over with quickly.”

They take a rhombus formation with Derek leading the way and Mahealani and Daehler on either side of him with their assault rifles. Stiles takes up the rear, aiming over Derek’s shoulder. They exit the alley onto the street where they find the Covenant being engaged by Laura’s team. The members of Laura’s team are spread out, but the Covenant aren’t retreating. They must have reinforcements on the way.

“Split up!” Derek orders. “There’s going to be more of them soon and I don’t want us to be boxed in when that happens. Stiles, you’re with me.”

Mahealani and Daehler make a break back into the alley so that they can find another point of entry. Stiles moves closer to Derek to present a smaller target.

“How are you doing for ammunition?” Derek asks him.

“Running low,” says Stiles. “I’m going to have to break out my pistol soon.”

“One of Laura’s team has a battle rifle,” says Derek. “Ask Laura if they have any extra they can spare for you.”

Stiles murmurs into his comm as he takes out a Grunt and Derek moves forward to get a better range with his shotgun. He brings down a Brute with two shots, and across the street Derek watches Laura jump down from a low roof onto a Brute’s back, driving her combat knife into its neck. When it collapses, Laura raises her assault rifle and begins shooting at the Covenant around her. Derek doesn’t waste any of his ammo on the Grunts; instead, he bashes them in the face or back to destroy the breathing mechanism that supplies them with their vital methane supply. Stiles intermittently uses Derek as his cover and the environment, seeking shelter behind a dented car on the side of the street as he methodically shoots their foes. Derek is just finishing blowing the head off of a Brute with his shotgun when Stiles puts a hand on his forearm to get his attention. His face is blanched.

“Derek, I think you should hear this,” Stiles says. He takes off his helmet and hands it to Derek. It’s too small to fit Derek properly, but he fits it over his head as well as possible. Laura and Daehler are arguing over the comm.

“What’s going on?” Derek asks.

“Your marine is a fucking idiot, Noble Eight,” Laura spits.

“ _I’m_ an idiot? I’m saying that I found the Covenant reinforcements and I think we should take them out before they can join with the others,” says Daehler.

“We’ll be overwhelmed,” says Laura. “We need to dwindle the numbers of the battalion here before we pick more fights.”

“Come on; let’s see those SPARTAN super-soldier powers in action,” says Daehler sarcastically. “Halsey gave them to you for a reason.”

Derek crouches behind the car while Stiles covers for him. “Daehler, the Commander is right. You need to get back here without being seen. Help us here, then we’ll go for the other squadron.”

“Yeah, it’s a little late for that,” says Daehler.

“What?”

“I’ve been sighted.”

Derek curses. “Okay. _Stay there._ Let us come to you.”

“Fuck that! I’ll be killed!”

“Daehler, listen to Noble Eight,” says Laura. “If you lead them here, it will put _all of us_ at jeopardy.”

“See you soon.”

“Daehler, stop!”

Derek pulls off the helmet, eyes wide, and shoves it into Stiles’ hands. “Shit.”

Stiles sees the wide-eyed tension in Derek’s face and swallows as he pulls back on his helmet. “What’s happening?”

“The fucking idiot is leading the other squadron right to us.”

All at once, Derek sees Daehler come running out of the alleyway next to Laura. Laura turns to look down the mouth of the alley, gun drawn up. Whatever she sees makes her falter, and she yells something undistinguishable over the din of battle. Before Laura can dodge, an enormous glob of bright green incendiary gel comes hurtling out of the alleyway and catches her in the chest, exploding on impact. The blast sends her flying across the street, crashing into the wall of a building before falling to the ground like a broken marionette.

“LAURA!” Derek sprints the few meters separating him from her and drops to his knees next to where she lays. Gently, he turns her onto her back and the smell of burnt meat wafts up. The front of Laura’s armor has been obliterated and beneath it, her torso is a mass of blackened, mutilated flesh. Her skin has almost fused with the chain of her dog-tags. “Laura, no…” He carefully removes her helmet, but her eyes stare lifelessly past Derek at the sky. A knot of grief twists in Derek’s chest and he removes the secondary chain from Laura’s dog-tags, pulling his own up from beneath his armor to add Laura’s tag to his chain. A hand clasps Derek’s shoulder tightly and he looks up to see Stiles standing next to him, looking into the alley Laura was in front of.

“Derek,” he says, voice tight.

Derek looks up just as the Hunter bursts through the mouth of the alley, assault canon glowing green at the end. Derek’s grief bubbles into rage and he tucks his dog-tags back beneath his armor before hefting his shotgun. Derek charges at the hulking mass of the Hunter, firing at the twisting forms of the eels that fill the armor through the cracks. Orange blood sprays up from the buckshot, but the Hunter is unaffected. It runs toward Derek, the ground thundering beneath its feet, and it launches another blast of incendiary gel. Derek rolls to the side to evade it and shoots at the Hunter’s side. It turns toward him and swings up the assault canon, hitting Derek hard in the gut and throwing him back. He coughs from the impact and props himself up on his elbows as the Hunter comes for him again. Derek raises his shotgun and the Hunter aims its assault canon at him when he hears a strangled yell and Stiles leaps onto the Hunter’s back from the top of the car, grabbing onto the large spikes set into its armor. With one arm, Stiles drives the nozzle of his battle rifle into the exposed neck of the Hunter and fires twice before it clicks empty. He shakes the weapon with a look of horror and lets it fall against his chest by its strap as he reaches for his service pistol.

With the Hunter distracted and scrabbling to pull Stiles off of its back, Derek gets up and moves around behind the Hunter, shooting at its bare back with his shotgun. The Hunter finally catches hold of Stiles and heaves the marine over its back, sending him crashing against the hood of the already-dented car. The windshield smashes and Derek hears Stiles cry out in pain. Derek reloads his shotgun and shoots at the Hunter with renewed fervor. The Hunter turns toward Derek and begins to approach, and Derek backs up as he keeps shooting. Behind the Hunter, he can see Stiles firing his pistol at its back from where he lays. The heavy form of the Hunter trembles and Derek shoots twice at its neck before it finally crumples to the ground with a wet, gurgling sigh.

Derek looks up from the orange blood pooling on the pavement and meets Stiles’ eyes. “Stiles—”

“I’m fine,” says the marine. “It’s just my ribs; they’re still tender.”

“That was amazing!” a voice says, and Derek turns to see Daehler gaping at him.

Anger boils inside of Derek and he marches up to Daehler, grabbing him around the throat. “You stupid son of a bitch. You killed Laura!”

Daehler snorts indignantly. “ _I_ killed her? I didn’t kill her, the Hunter did!”

“You led it right to us! You _knew_ this would happen!” Derek yells. He lowers his voice into a growl. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t blow your fucking head off right now.”

“Derek,” Stiles calls softly. Derek turns a glare on Stiles and the marine looks back at him with sad eyes, shaking his head. “He’s not worth it.”

Derek makes a noise of disgust and releases Daehler before shoving him away viciously. “Get the fuck away from me.”

Daehler scowls hatefully at him. “You’re all fucking cowards. We’re losing this war and Halsey is wasting her resources.” Derek and Stiles look away from him pointedly and Daehler spits on the ground before walking to the other side of the street. Without warning, a second Hunter comes careening out of the alleyway. Daehler stops in his tracks and grabs his gun, but he’s too late. The dead Hunter’s bond brother charges him down, beating him with the heavy shield on its arm. While he’s on the ground, the Hunter raises its foot and Daehler screams as it comes down, crushing in his ribs with a sick crunch. Blood runs from the corner of his slackened mouth.

The Hunter turns to Derek then and its assault canon glows bright green with a hum as it charges. Derek takes a step back toward Stiles and raises his shotgun. The Hunter moves forward, shaking the ground with each step. A cacophonous noise rears up to Derek’s right, but his eyes remain locked on the Hunter. The Hunter lifts the canon higher, taking aim when, suddenly, a large van comes careening into it from the side, knocking it to the ground. Derek blinks in shock as Private Mahealani gets out of the now-ruined van and pats the filthy, crushed hood, coated in red, blue, and orange blood. Derek charges forward before the Hunter can get up and shoots at his neck, soon joined by Mahealani. When it finally goes still, Derek looks up at the marine.

“Where did you get that van?” he asks.

“I hotwired it,” says Mahealani. “Daehler ditched me and I got some of my own reinforcements.”

Derek nods and puts a hand on Mahealani’s shoulder, giving it a brief squeeze. “You did well.”

Mahealani gives him a small smirk. “I know. There are more Brutes on the way; there are some Jackals with them too.”

“Alright. Use your comm to call in Laura’s team; they’re with us now,” says Derek. “Then I want you to check on Stiles.”

Mahealani nods. “Understood.” He begins speaking into his comm and Derek gives a shuddering sigh, surveying the carnage that scatters the street. He thinks of Laura and feels sick.

**Author's Note:**

> If there are any grammatical errors or tense mistakes, feel free to let me know! This is unbeta'd.
> 
> Also, if you have any questions about the Halo verse, feel free to ask! I will answer absolutely anything that doesn`t qualify as a spoiler.
> 
> You can find me at thecomedownchampion.tumblr.com


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